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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900469">All The Nothings Into Somethings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrandnewheart/pseuds/abrandnewheart'>abrandnewheart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Better For Us Both [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions regarding mental health, Break Up, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Break Up, Reconciliation, Sakusa Kiyoomi/OC - Freeform, Therapy, good decisions regarding mental health, or maybe hopeful is a better word</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:40:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,777</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrandnewheart/pseuds/abrandnewheart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an odd thing, realising he’s practically a stranger to someone who he used to be convinced would be around forever. The Kiyoomi who must exist in Atsumu’s head is gone. The 23-year-old Atsumu who exists in Kiyoomi’s head is gone, too.</p><p>Also known as 'the mug fic part 2'.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Better For Us Both [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>335</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is the second in a series; while I think it is possible to read this by itself and follow it, it will definitely have more context if you read the first part! </p><p>I've split this into two chapters because of the length, but I do wholeheartedly think that it is better read in one sitting if possible. </p><p>Please be aware that the opening is quite heavy. As with the first part, please read the tags and read with caution. It's also worth noting that there is a brief reference to Atsumu sleeping with someone who isn't Kiyoomi (they are already broken up by this point), and the second half of this chapter revolves around Kiyoomi dating someone who isn't Atsumu (again, Kiyoomi and Atsumu are not together at this point).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Kiyoomi walks through the door, Atsumu is there to greet him. Kiyoomi smiles, just a little bit, and goes to press a peck to Atsumu’s lips, but Atsumu looks like stone and thunder and Kiyoomi doesn’t quite make contact. He doesn’t know what he’s done. </p><p>“Is something wrong?” He has to ask. He’s spent far too much of his life trying to assume the intentions of other people—and Atsumu has told him before to just ask instead of working himself up into a state. </p><p>Atsumu opens his mouth and shuts it just as quickly. He looks like he’s considering his words, and then says, “Let’s talk.”</p><p>“About what?” Kiyoomi hates the way his voice wavers, and he can already feel the beginnings of a knot in his chest.</p><p>“Let’s just talk, Kiyoomi.” </p><p>Atsumu’s answer is deeply unhelpful, and Kiyoomi takes a deep, shuddery breath to steady himself. It’s something bad, then, because if it was something good, or something about work, or a minor problem he’d have already come out with it, he’d have already just <em>said </em>it’s to do with the team or that he has to go away for a few days because Osamu needs a spare set of hands and Atsumu’s are free or that their electricity has gone out again. </p><p>“You need to tell me what it’s about—” Kiyoomi can barely get the words out. </p><p>“Just come to the kitchen. Sit down. I made tea.”</p><p>Kiyoomi shakes his head as Atsumu adds a, “Please.” His tone is haggard, weary, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and so Kiyoomi has no choice but to follow him. </p><p>Later, he will wonder why this felt like he was being led to slaughter, and why he knew what was coming. </p><p>Kiyoomi takes a seat at the table. He watches as Atsumu boils the kettle, watches the well-practiced movements of someone who drinks too much instant coffee, watches as he stirs milk and sugar into a familiar black mug. </p><p>Kiyoomi makes a move to try and pour himself some tea, but his hands shake as he picks up the teapot, rattling the lid. The sound of ceramic clinking is much too loud in a kitchen which is much too quiet. </p><p>Atsumu joins him at the table. Atsumu reaches across and pours his tea for him. He has not put milk on the table. It’s just how Kiyoomi likes it. </p><p>Kiyoomi does not reach for the mug, instead staring at it and willing himself to not be sick. He knows what this is. There is only one viable explanation for what is happening right now, for the <em>let’s talk</em> like it might be the last time, for the tea being ready as he came home, for the way Atsumu reached to pour it for him. </p><p>So Kiyoomi looks up, forces down the bile that threatens to rise in his throat, and says, “You’re leaving me.” It isn’t a question. </p><p>Atsumu does not answer immediately, but that is answer enough. </p><p>Kiyoomi stares. What brought this on? Why is it happening? Why hadn’t he realised this was going to happen sooner—why <em>hadn’t </em>it happened sooner? </p><p>Atsumu’s voice cuts through those in Kiyoomi’s head. “I’ve not been happy for a while now.”</p><p>The words linger. They loop, almost in slow motion, only accompanied by the sound of blood rushing through his ears. It is a track that Kiyoomi already knows he will not be able to unhear for a long time. </p><p>He cannot help the pathetic, “Did I do something wrong?” </p><p>To his credit, Atsmu is quick to respond this time, the words practically falling out of his mouth instead of being spoken. “No, god, no, it’s not like that—”</p><p>“Then why?” He has to ask. He has to. </p><p>“Sometimes I find it really hard to cope,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi cannot do anything but stare until he continues, “I know you don’t mean it but I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t do bleach without the windows open and—”</p><p>“This is about the fucking windows?” Kiyoomi asks, just one in a string of questions he does not want to have to ask. “I apologised for that as soon as you got home.”</p><p>But Kiyoomi knows it’s not really about the windows. If it was, then it would have happened at the time, and that is why he is not surprised when Atsumu says, “It’s not about the windows.”</p><p>“Then it’s about me. About something fundamental.” He knows he is right, and he can hear the irritation in his own voice. He cannot resist a scathing, “You used to tell me you’d wait forever for me and you’re going back on it.” </p><p>“Omi, it’s not like that—”</p><p>“Then what?” Kiyoomi demands, but his voice cracks and he knows he has given himself away. “What did I do? Why?”</p><p>“It’s not about you.” Atsumu says. </p><p>He’s a liar. He’s a liar. He’s a <em>liar. </em></p><p>“Don’t lie to me.” He’s tired. He’s so tired of this already and it’s all he can do to get the words out. </p><p>“I’m not. I just can’t deal with this any more.”</p><p>“You mean you can’t deal with <em>me</em>,” Because that’s what this is. It wasn’t about the windows, or the bleach, but it was about both those things in equal measure too, and why those became problems in the first place. Atsumu had gotten it right, back then, back when he’d asked why he was so <em>weird. </em>He really is weird. And that’s what’s led them to this. Atsumu has finally seen sense. </p><p>Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut, but it’s not enough. He feels the heat rise up in his cheeks and the way it spills out of his eyes, even as he rubs furiously at them to try and get rid. </p><p>“I knew you’d leave eventually,” He gasps. It’s hard to breathe. Why is it hard to breathe? “I knew it would happen, I knew it, I knew it, you kept telling me to stop catastrophising and predicting the future but I was<em> right.</em>”</p><p>“Omi, stop it,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi forces his eyes up to look at him. “It’s better this way.”</p><p>“Better for who?” Kiyoomi yells. His body moves on instinct, and he’s on his feet, slamming his hands against the table before he can even process what he’s doing. “Who, Atsumu? You? Because I’ve been caught pretty off guard with this.”</p><p>“For us both.”</p><p>Kiyoomi scowls then exhales sharply through his nose and stares at the man in front of him. Atsumu Miya is twenty-three. They have known each other since they were fifteen. Kiyoomi doesn’t know how he could possibly have known someone for eight years and still know so little about how they really think. </p><p>“Don’t presume to know anything about what’s best for me. You just lost that right.” He picks up the mug of tea and the teapot. He paces to the sink, and dumps the drink down the drain. Atsumu can clean up the tea leaves for all Kiyoomi cares. He will not be here tonight to worry about it. </p><p>“I’m going home.” He announces, and he may come to regret that decision, but it has to be better than staying here. </p><p>“We have a sofa-bed, I’ll just—” </p><p>“I don’t want to be near you.” </p><p>Kiyoomi leaves the room and slams the door shut behind him. He does not turn back to look one last time, and he does not say any of the other things his mind tells him that he could. </p><p>He could rush back and apologise, he could beg for forgiveness at Atsumu’s feet, he could not leave at all and arrange for someone to sleep on the sofa bed. He could take a nap and wake up and try to forget about all of this. </p><p>Instead, he moves on autopilot, making quick work of grabbing an overnight bag and throwing some clothes into it. He does not need much. </p><p>He does not know whether his parents will be at home, but that doesn’t matter; he has a spare key. He texts his mother to let her know that he’s visiting. Two little check marks pop up, seen, but he does not get a response. </p><p>He slams the apartment door shut behind him and makes his way to the train station. </p><p>The ride to Tokyo is not one that Kiyoomi is present for. His body moves on autopilot, paying for tickets, finding an empty seat in a quiet carriage, sanitising the area around it, sliding noise-cancelling headphones over his ears and letting his phone decide his music for him. His eyes do not focus on anything even as he stares out the window, instead passively letting the scenery blur by. </p><p>The train stops at every station on the way. Other passengers come and go, and Kiyoomi wonders quite how it is fair that other people get to go about their lives when he feels as though he has been flung off the edge of the earth.  </p><p>Kiyoomi’s parents are not at the house when he arrives. He makes his way to his old bedroom, sweeps his eyes over the way that it has been redecorated, and flops face-first onto the bed. </p><p>He is not sure how long he spends there. </p><p>It could be hours. It could be days. Kiyoomi isn’t quite sure how long he sleeps. He blinks his eyes open to soft afternoon sunlight and rolls over in his bed—his, because he is at his parents house, and is emphatically not at home in the bed that he and Atsumu share. </p><p>Shared.</p><p>He pads on fawnlike limbs to the bathroom and peers in the mirror. His reflection is blurry. His eyes hurt and it isn’t from allergies. </p><p>He grabs at a cloth to wash his face and scrubs. He is rough, using scalding water until his face is pink all over. It feels good. It doesn’t. It’s a complicated mess and he’s left tingling and tender, just like always. </p><p>Except it wasn’t always. It hadn’t been always for a while. It used to be, but always had decreased down to sometimes and there was only one person to thank for it. </p><p>Fuck him. Fuck Atsumu Miya down to his very core. </p><p>Kiyoomi had known this was going to happen from the very first time Atsumu—Miya—had flashed a too bright smile and said, “Lookin’ forward to tossin’ to ya, Omi.” He had known from the start that getting too involved wasn’t sensible, but he’d done it anyway, hadn’t he, all because it had felt right in the moment. </p><p>Kiyoomi used to think that relationships wouldn’t make him happy, and that he didn’t need them to be happy. He would maintain that that was right, except now he has had a taste of what it feels like. He has been tainted, he has been touched by something wonderful and beautiful and which made everything hurt less and he doesn’t know how he can make do without it. </p><p>Who could possibly come back from being touched by the sun itself? </p><p>Kiyoomi had always appreciated the way the sun touched the things around him, from the plants he used to keep on windowsills, to the way it made the sky into an entire artist’s palette on special evenings. </p><p>But the sun had always hurt him too. Kiyoomi is millions of miles away, yet his skin still turns pink and burns from too much exposure. </p><p>Foolish of him to think he could ever have had a star of his own or held the sun. </p><p>He stares down his reflection, tells himself, “You’re being stupid,” and forces himself into a shower. He forces himself to get dressed into the comfiest thing he can find in his old bedroom. </p><p>He pads through the house and wonders if either of his parents will be making an appearance during his stay. </p><p>The house is quiet, and empty, and so Kiyoomi settles himself in front of the television. Mindless talk shows drown out the <em>I’ve not been happy for a while now I’ve not been happy for a while now I’ve not been happy for a while now.</em></p><p>He spends the whole day there, only moving for water and whatever snacks he can find in the cupboard. Distantly, he knows he’s not meeting his macro or micronutrient goals, but he cannot find it in himself to care. </p><p>He thinks he watches a movie. He doesn’t know what it is. There’s a terrible game show on a tacky channel that might have cracked a smile at, once. He falls asleep to the sound of the news. Somehow, it is reassuring that even entire nations have problems which cannot be solved overnight. </p><p>When he wakes, it is with a crick in his neck and a pounding headache. He sits there a while longer, blinking bleariness from his eyes as his ears tune him back into the news. He sits upright, regretting it nearly instantly as it worsens the pain in his head. His stomach twinges, and he knows he should eat, so he gets to his feet.</p><p>There are cans of soup in the cupboard, old ones, but Kiyoomi peers at the dates on the side of the can and knows it will have to do. There is nothing technically stopping him from going to the store to get something fresher, but his stomach is insistent. </p><p>He dares check his phone as the microwave whirrs. </p><p>Three messages. His breath catches in his throat. He stares at the little red icon that taunts him, and only clicks on it when the microwave starts to beep. </p><p>He isn’t sure what it is he’s feeling when he realises none of them are from Atsumu. Relieved? Disappointed? Both?</p><p>What he does have, though, is a message from Atsumu’s mother. There are messages from Hinata and Bokuto, too, but those aren’t the ones that stick out. His finger hovers over the messages, unsure which to click, or if he should click any at all, because his food is ready and he needs to eat, but not opening the messages is going to drive him insane too.</p><p>He opens the one from Atsumu’s mother first. Rips the bandaid right off. </p><p>
  <em>Atsumu has told me what happened. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do for you Kiyoomi, I’m only at the end of the phone. I always liked you. </em>
</p><p>He should delete it. He doesn’t. Instead he closes the messenger and pulls his bowl of soup out of the microwave. It burns his fingers, but he doesn’t care, and he retreats back to the same sofa he has spent most of the day, or maybe night in. He isn’t even sure what time it is any more and he does not want to open his phone to check. </p><p>He spends another two, or maybe three, or was it four days alone in the house. That his parents are still gone is not unusual. It’s kind of lonely, but Kiyoomi isn’t unused to feeling lonely in this house. His phone buzzes periodically. In the mornings. The middle of the afternoon, right when practice would be ending. In the evenings before he goes to bed. Kiyoomi wonders if Bokuto and Hinata have arranged with each other to try and check in with him, but he does not reply. The only person who does get a response is their coach, and Kiyoomi makes it very clear that he will be missing for a while. </p><p>He does not want to miss practices. He really doesn’t. He feels terrible about it, but the idea of having to show up and practice with Miya is… </p><p>Well, it’s unthinkable. </p><p>His mother returns on what must be his fifth day in the house. When she spots him in the kitchen, she frowns and asks, “What are you doing here?”
</p><p>“I told you I was visiting, mother,” Kiyoomi answers. He had texted her. He remembers doing that while he was on his way. He does his best to ignore how he feels like a child again, in a house that was much too big for someone so small. </p><p>“I didn’t think you’d be staying so long. I thought it was just overnight.” </p><p>Kiyoomi hadn’t said anything to that effect, but he supposes it’s a fair assumption. He does not visit often nor for very long, usually. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says. </p><p>Her response is a short hug, carefully, like he might break. It feels good after no contact for several days. It doesn’t. He doesn’t know. “What prompted this?” </p><p>Kiyoomi wishes he did not have the heart to tell her, but the words all come tumbling out at once, interspersed with, ‘I know it’s stupid’s and ‘I know it’s not rational’s and ‘it’s illogical’s. </p><p>His mother considers him. “You’re right,” She says. “It is stupid to be upset over some boy.”

Some boy. Atsumu—Miya—hadn’t just been some boy, and Kiyoomi bites down every instinct in his body that wants to jump to defend him. Kiyoomi owes him nothing, and least of all that. </p><p>But Miya Atsumu was still more than just some boy. He was the sun, and Kiyoomi had held him against the odds, and he had at one point convinced Kiyoomi that maybe he was a star too. A small one maybe, by comparison. A colder one. But a star all the same. He had had Kiyoomi convinced that maybe he deserved poetry written about him, too, that writers could craft metaphors about the moon in his eyes and constellations on his skin like he was something special and wonderful and worthy of such praise.</p><p>Kiyoomi says nothing. He nods, and pushes down both the words and bile that threaten to spill. </p><p>His mother’s company is not good, but he thinks it might be better than whatever is waiting for him at home. And so, he spends another day. And then another, and another, until one morning he is woken by his phone ringing. A private number. If it’s important, they’ll leave a voicemail, or so he tells himself. </p><p>But it doesn’t stop ringing. The call disconnects, then they ring back. Over and over, until Kiyoomi finally picks up and grunts, “Hello? Sakusa Kiyoomi speaking.” </p><p>“<em>Omi,</em>” Kiyoomi can’t place the voice immediately, but eventually the fog lifts enough to recognise it as Bokuto. “Thank god you finally answered. Are you coming back to practice any time soon? Why have you been gone so long?” </p><p>Kiyoomi does not want to admit it, even though Bokuto may not even know it’s an admission of truth, but it is in a small voice that he says, “I’m not well.” </p><p>Bokuto lets out a low whistle. “That’s rough, Omi. But hey—I’m in Tokyo this weekend anyway. I can give you a ride home after if you want.”</p><p>Kiyoomi furrows his eyebrows. “Who said I was in Tokyo?” </p><p>Bokuto falters, then says, “Tsumtsum and coach.”</p><p>Kiyoomi is quiet, to the point that Bokuto asks, “You still there?” Kiyoomi grunts a response, and Bokuto continues, “You don’t have to, y’know? It’s just I kinda miss having you around and I know Hinata does too, and I’m not saying any of this to make you feel weird about it, or anything! I get why you need a break. I’d need one. But I also think it’d be kinda cool to have you back. It’s really important to keep a routine, y’know? I need one or else everything goes to shit.”</p><p>He’s talking more to fill the silence rather than provide anything useful, but Kiyoomi doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s almost kind of nice to have Bokuto’s voice to drown out other, imagined ones. </p><p>“Maybe a ride back to Osaka would be good,” Kiyoomi concedes. He cannot hide here forever, and moreover: he does not want to. “Only if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“‘Course I don’t mind!” Kiyoomi can hear the smile in Bokuto’s voice. “Text me your address and I’ll pick you up on Sunday.”</p><p>“I will. Thank you.”</p><p>Bokuto says, “See you then!” and Kiyoomi hangs up the phone. </p><p>It’s just a few more days. He’ll be okay in a few days, and he’ll show back up at the apartment and… He can deal with the situation when he gets there. </p><p>The days until Bokuto comes to pick him up are a blur, but Kiyoomi isn’t really surprised. The days drag and pass in a flash all at once; he is bored watching daytime television but then it’s bedtime before he’s even aware of it. His mother pressing mugs of tea into his hands and placing food by his side is the only real indication that any time is passing at all. </p><p>It takes him an age to pack his things. He gets distracted partway through and goes to wash his hair. He gets lost in looking at an old medal from when he was at Itachiyama. He sits on his bed and stares at the wall. </p><p>But eventually, he packs his things, only finishing as Bokuto texts to say that he’s there. Kiyoomi says goodbye to his mother, with a kiss on the cheek and a mumbled apology that he couldn’t stay longer to see his siblings. Then, he heads out to Bokuto’s car.</p><p>Bokuto has a nice car. The kind of car someone would buy when someone didn’t know how to manage their money very well. Kiyoomi recalls Bokuto talking to Atsumu about this one specifically. </p><p>Kiyoomi tosses his bag into the backseat and slides in beside Bokuto up front. Bokuto looks at him for a second too long, eyes flicking every which way. But he doesn’t say anything except, “Good to see you, man!” with that same old wide smile he always has. </p><p>The drive home is surprisingly calm. It’s a long drive, so they have to stop multiple times at rest stops for snacks and coffee, but on the whole, it’s not so bad. People like to say that Bokuto talks too much, or that he doesn’t know when to shut up, but he’s never been that way with Kiyoomi. He has always had the good sense to know when Kiyoomi is up to join in with shenanigans and when he needs to be left in his own head. </p><p>Today, Bokuto is making good use of idle chatter. He talks about his friend Kuroo, and Akaashi, and he talks about everything he got up to when he visited his parents last. He talks about nothing and everything, punctuated with clever silences, and Kiyoomi wonders how anyone could possibly look at a man like Bokuto and see someone they deem stupid. </p><p>It’s dark when they return to Osaka. Kiyoomi invites Bokuto up for a coffee—not because he wants to, but because his chest is in a vice as soon as he considers the notion that Atsumu might be there. </p><p>He heaves a sigh of relief when he steps inside and nobody else is there, but something like grief stabs him when he steps into the kitchen to make a coffee and half of the things are gone. One of the plants from the window. Cutlery is missing from the drawer. A cheesy apron that Osamu had gifted is not hanging over the door. Atsumu’s favourite mug is not in the cupboard. </p><p>Kiyoomi’s eyes hone in on a mark on the far wall and he makes a note to inspect it more thoroughly later. </p><p>Bokuto doesn’t stay long, just enough to down his coffee and make sure that Kiyoomi gets some food into his stomach. </p><p>When he leaves, Kiyoomi falls asleep on the couch, because he does not think he can bear to sleep in an empty bed.  </p><p>He gets looped into a conference call from the team medic and their head coach the day after. It’s an incredibly difficult conversation, and Kiyoomi is barely aware of half of what is going on, but he is gently reminded that his mental health is just as, if not more important than his physical health, and Kiyoomi kicks himself for letting things get this bad. If other people are noticing, it’s bad. He knows this. </p><p>He books an appointment for the first time in a year. That is how he ends up back in front of Kimura, on the same plush sofa and looking at the same landscape paintings that he supposes are meant to be soothing. </p><p>She asks, “Why have you come back to see me now?” and Kiyoomi crumbles. </p><p>Kimura has a kind smile. Perhaps at one point Kiyoomi would have thought it patronising, but it is hard to figure out. She spends an hour trying to coax him to talk more extensively than, “I’m not doing so well.”</p><p>Despite her persistence, Kiyoomi does not want to elaborate, and so they end up talking much more vaguely about coping mechanisms. She asks how the mindfulness and distraction activities worked out. Kiyoomi lists them off and explains why they were all terrible. She gives more suggestions; Kiyoomi vetoes all of them.</p><p>That is, until she says, “This is a less typical suggestion, but have you ever considered taking up pottery?”</p><p>“Pottery.” Kiyoomi repeats, laughing incredulously. “As in working with clay. Where I’ll get dirty, and where I’ll inevitably be terrible at it for a long time. You think that’s sensible?”</p><p>“Mistakes are low-stakes in the arts,” Kimura explains. “You can always try again. Nothing is unfixable. And it’s physical work. It’s probably harder than you give it credit for.”</p><p>She’s terrible, pulling on his competitive streak like that, but Kiyoomi purses his lips into a pout and considers the suggestion. “Do you think it might actually help distract me?” He asks. </p><p>“I think it could be worth a try.” </p><p>‘Worth a try’ is what brings Kiyoomi to a beginners class. He’s not been able to face going back to practice, but going to a class seems… doable. </p><p>Kiyoomi hates every second of it. The clay gets under his nails and onto his skin, drying uncomfortably there. He cannot get to grips with the wheel, and his mound of clay is off-center which makes it wobble, and he can’t seem to keep the clay at the right consistency. </p><p>But he manages to produce something vaguely resembling a bowl by the end. It’s misshapen and lumpy, but it could theoretically hold liquid. </p><p>They take it off him to be fired in the kiln ahead of the class the week after, and Kiyoomi thinks maybe he can find it in himself to come back for another go. </p><p>In the interim, he swallows his pride and shows up to practice one morning. He’s not been good about keeping up his fitness routine but he’s only been gone a few weeks. Everyone needs a break occasionally, and Kiyoomi thinks this was more than suitable circumstances. </p><p>It goes mostly okay. Atsumu is there, yes, but Kiyoomi manages to avoid him for the most part, and doesn’t acknowledge him when they have to practice spikes. It’s hard. It’s too hard, and Kiyoomi winds up practicing with the second-string setter instead. </p><p>When he’s in the changing room later, finishing up, he spies hickies on the inside of Atsumu’s thighs. </p><p>He never had been able to give Atsumu what he needed, had he? No wonder things had ended up this way. </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t sleep that night. </p><p>When he returns to therapy, he doesn’t mean to shout at Kimura, but she asks how he’s managing the anxiety and he snaps. </p><p>“It doesn’t <em>need </em>managing,” He throws his hands up and rolls his eyes. “That’s all any of you ever say, you keep saying that I overthink things and I try to predict the future and I try to get inside other people’s head and figure out what they’re thinking and that I can’t do that, except I knew this was going to happen eventually, didn’t I? I knew he was going to leave me, and I was right, and you all keep telling me to stop trying to figure out the future but I was right. How can I be doing the wrong thing when I’m right?”</p><p>Kimura considers him for several moments, then asks, “Kiyoomi, does it feel <em>good </em>to be right?” </p><p>Kiyoomi sits in silence and stares. He does not say anything for several minutes, and he does not think he can even process the question properly. </p><p>Maybe it’s a sign. </p><p>The days pass, the same weird slow-but-fast, and soon enough Kiyoomi is sat in the pottery studio again. He gets to the wheel he had sat at last time, and there is no freshly-fired bowl waiting for him. There is only one other person in the same situation, and the teacher tries to explain, but all Kiyoomi catches is ‘exploded’ and ‘lucky it didn’t affect anyone else’.</p><p>He spends the lesson trying to throw something even half as okay as the last time and fails miserably the entire time. </p><p>Partway through the lesson, he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket, insistent against his thigh but mercifully silent under the noise of people slapping clay to wedge it, or attach it to the wheel, and the whirring of the wheels themselves. As much as he wants to excuse himself to take a look at who it is and maybe take the call—his hands are covered in liquified clay and by the time he’s washed up, the call will be gone anyway.</p><p>If it’s important, they’ll leave a message. </p><p>That’s what he tells himself, and it’s what he reminds himself after he’s left his class (without a successful bowl) when he sees a voicemail. A voicemail from Atsumu. A ten-minute voicemail from Atsumu. </p><p>Something hot and uncomfortable rises in his throat, and he has to force himself to take a deep breath. What could Atsumu possibly want that would take ten minutes to explain? </p><p>He forces down the urge to listen to it immediately, instead focusing on the drive home. It’s not sensible to listen here, or now, not when he doesn’t know what it is or what it’s about or—well, much of anything.</p><p>The knowledge that the message is there waiting, though, makes him feel all kinds of uncomfortable and his phone feels hot, burning against his leg. </p><p>He stumbles through his front door, fumbles with his phone, nearly drops it and takes three attempts to hit the button to listen to the message. </p><p>He presses the phone to his ear, as hard as he can for he isn’t sure he can stop his hand from shaking otherwise.</p><p>He isn’t quite sure what he expected. </p><p>An apology? A ‘let’s talk’? </p><p>Something. He expected something, and instead he lays on a sofa with his fucking phone pressed to his fucking ear listening to Atsumu have a fucking conversation with someone whose voice he doesn’t recognise, having a wonderful fucking time.</p><p>He doesn’t hang up. He can’t, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t <em>dare</em> make any kind of move, because Atsumu sounds happy, and it’s been so long since he’s heard that up close, and what if there’s something that’s actually meant for him here after all, what if Atsumu realises part way through the call what he’s done and he decides to talk it out and—</p><p>“Oh. Fuck—Omi.” </p><p>A click and it’s over. </p><p>Kiyoomi lets the phone fall to the floor. </p><p>Okay. Okay. He’s okay. He’s fine. He’s okay. This is fine. It’s fine. It’s been six weeks and three days since everything happened and he hasn’t heard that nickname once from Atsumu since then, and Atsumu has barely even looked his way except for when he’s absolutely had to, and everyone’s been acting so <em>weird </em>because they obviously know what’s happened but they don’t want to talk about it and—</p><p>Kiyoomi presses the heels of his hands to his eyes in an effort to stop what he knows it is too late to prevent. </p><p>There is a place below rock bottom and Kiyoomi is in it.</p><p>It feels like weeks are passing in that same haze, and while he’ll admit that the lessons are helpful, the pills he has been put on make his head foggy. </p><p>It’s transfer season in the volleyball world, and that means one thing. The possibility of players moving around, of people moving from first to second string, players moving from division two up into the V League. </p><p>Kiyoomi can only watch as the team managers replace him with someone who is five months and two days younger than him and two-point-five inches shorter. Kiyoomi watches as his teammates rally around this new person; another overly excitable member of the team who likes blasting music in the locker room and talking at a pace of a hundred words a second. </p><p>Kiyoomi watches the new team member play from his new spot on the bench. </p><p>Kiyoomi is not surprised when he's informed they're breaking his contract—it is cheaper for them to pay out the early breakage clause than to pay him for the remainder of the season. Besides that: they cannot market him when he is like this. </p><p>They try to farm him out to the Falcons. They try to farm him out to EJP under the pretense that working with his cousin will be good for team dynamics. They try to arrange a trade with the Rockets, instead of the one-way situation they had ended up in.</p><p>Nobody bites. </p><p>On the final day of the transfer window, Kiyoomi arrives home to a letter inviting him to play for the Narwhals in Amagasaki. The start date is a few months out. He can try and get better before he would ever start there. </p><p>He signs the contract and prays to any god who cares to listen that it’s the right thing to do. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>Kiyoomi feels like he is five years old again, preparing for his first day at school. Instead, Kiyoomi is twenty-four, preparing to meet a whole group of new teammates. </p><p>His first day with the Narwhals is quite possibly the most stressful day of his life. He’s triple checked everything; his gear, his route to the practice gym, the names of the coaches, the names of his new teammates.</p><p>New teammates. Maybe these ones will be quieter. He’d never really been able to blend in with the chaos of the Jackals anyway. </p><p>He takes a deep breath once he arrives at the gym, pulls his shoulders back, and walks in like he’s supposed to be there. He is. This is his home base now. </p><p>The locker room is quiet. There’s a spot with his name on it, and a clear area either side of it; room for his personal bubble, room to not be interrupted too badly, and he’s grateful for it. There isn’t any official practice gear for him yet, so he pulls on a plain t-shirt and old shorts before he makes his way out into the actual gym. </p><p>He has to be careful to warm up extensively. All athletes do, but Kiyoomi knows too well his body reacts when he is not careful. It requires precision, and that takes time. </p><p>But soon enough, his new teammates start filing in, one by one. He recognises most of them from his research and he frantically tries to pull up the information he has on them from the corners of his mind. He read it this morning. He knows this stuff. There are several main regulars at present. (Kiyoomi doesn’t presume that he will be able to replace them—but it’s no secret they’ve been looking for some more people who can act as all-rounders, and Kiyoomi fits the bill. On a good day, anyway. He hasn’t had many of those recently).</p><p><strong>Watanabe Kaito.</strong> He’s been with the Narwhals for seven years: captain and a decent all-rounder, but labelled as a middle blocker, even if he’s a little on the short side for it. Family guy. Has a wife and two kids. </p><p><strong>Hamasaki Raisei. </strong>With the team for one year so far and exceeded everyone’s expectations as a libero. Young, younger than Kiyoomi, barely out of high school by the looks of him. Likely to move up into Division 1 at some point. </p><p><strong>Aone Takanobu.</strong> Kiyoomi’s seen him before, back in school. From one of those strong Miyagi schools, if he’s not mistaken. Middle blocker, and a good one at that. He’ll be good to practice with. He doesn’t talk much.</p><p><strong>Suishuu Nagomi. </strong>Opposite hitter. Left handed. Fan-favourite. Very talkative. Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to struggle. </p><p><strong>Ogawa Asuma. </strong>An enigma. Another middle blocker, tends to avoid any press whatsoever, which has made it nigh on impossible for Kiyoomi to find out anything about him except for whatever the team has published. Frustrating, but Kiyoomi understands the need for privacy. </p><p><strong>Hanayama Kazumasa</strong>. Setter. Kiyoomi knows he’s going to have to work hard with him, because nobody can set like Atsumu does. Kiyoomi is too used to pinpoint perfect sets, but he knows he won’t get that here. Not yet. </p><p>Research said Hanayama is another one from Miyagi originally, from around the same time as people like Hinata were at school. What are they feeding the kids up there. How do they coax them all into playing volleyball instead of other sports. What if that generation of players from Miyagi were all the rejects from the other sports teams and the other teams were even better—</p><p>Kiyoomi watches them as they warm up; in team colours of royal blue and white. Watanabe is the first to greet Kiyoomi, jogging over with a smile on his face. </p><p>“Good to have you with us, Sakusa,” Watanabe greets, with a smile that Kiyoomi thinks is kind. He doesn’t go for a handshake, or a high five, or a fist bump, or any other form of contact, and Kiyoomi can’t figure out if it’s something that Watanabe forgot, or if it’s something that they already know they’re not supposed to do with Kiyoomi. </p><p>Regardless, Kiyoomi nods, “I’m looking forward to working with you.” It’s a gentle half-truth, the kind of thing he says when he knows he needs to be polite but doesn’t really want to. There are a hundred and one reasons to not want to be here; the gym is smaller; the physiotherapist might not be as good; it’s a longer commute and he is absolutely not moving yet even if the apartment still feels weird and <em>wrong</em>; he’s stressed. </p><p>There are a hundred and one reasons to not want to be here, but there are a hundred and two reasons to want to be; a salary to supplement the payout he got from the Jackals and what he knows he can make from freelancing because he’d done that kind of thing for cash during university; ongoing healthcare from experts in sports injuries which is sorely needed and much appreciated given his propensity for achy limbs; his personal mantra of not stopping until he’s had enough, and he has not had enough yet; and because above all else, he still loves volleyball, even now, despite everything. </p><p>And so, he presses through the discomfort. There’s a round of introductions; Kiyoomi is not the only new recruit at this session, but he is by far the most eagerly anticipated one. </p><p>It’s almost funny. He doesn’t think he had this much of a reaction when he’d showed up to the Jackals sessions, the first time. People had been happy to have him, there, but this is a mix of genuine excitement, and wonder, and the whole thing is kind of overwhelming. </p><p>The coach talks about how they’re in a good position this season to aim for promotion into Division 1, and Kiyoomi doesn’t miss the way at least three pairs of eyes whip in his direction. There is other talent in the team, but he also knows the weight of what is being asked of him. Carry them through the season. He has been brought here to be the star. It has not been said to him, but he can feel it. He is not stupid. </p><p>But he has never learned how to do that role properly. All he knows how to do is stand amongst the light, not generate it. </p><p>It is not a comfortable session. He is metaphorically stretching muscles he has not had to use in a long time. Previously, he had practically been able to read Atsumu’s mind and have his own read in return. Now he has to actually call for tosses, and he has to try and explain why they weren’t right, has to try and memorise a whole series of new hand gestures and learn a new set of body language. He can start with Hanayama, and he’ll have to because they’re going to be working together the most, but there are another five regulars beyond that and a plethora of players who sit on the bench—including both of the backup setters. </p><p>Kiyoomi thought he was ready for this. Now he’s convinced he has never felt less ready for anything in his life. </p><p>What Kiyoomi finds most helpful is routine. He may not be able to stomach large gatherings of people—he may never be able to stomach them, even though he’d been trying his best to get comfortable with larger fan meetings—even if those people are his teammates, but what he can do is spend time with them one-on-one. When they warm up, he makes sure to jog with a different person every day. When they stop for cool down stretches, he makes sure to work with the same person he had jogged with. </p><p>On day one of his ‘spend time with every colleague’ plan, he starts with Watanabe. He is arguably the most well known of the entire Narwhals squad (Kiyoomi hates that his next thought is that actually, <em>he </em>is the most well known of the squad now); he has been around the longest, and Kiyoomi suspects that when he retires from actively playing that he will find a solid ongoing career in commentating. He knows his stuff. He has all of the soothing presence that a captain should have, and a low tolerance for bullshit. </p><p>On day two, he picks Hanayama, mainly for logistical purposes. He is shorter than Kiyoomi would have expected—he is around 5 inches shorter than Kiyoomi himself—but he seems to have steady hands and a solid foundation. Kiyoomi tries to make a joke about Miyagi spawning higher than typical rates of professional players, and Hanayama responds with stories about his high school and the time he played against Hinata, and he asks questions about whether Hinata is still scarily good. </p><p>“He is,” Kiyoomi admits, “He really is.”</p><p>Hanayama makes a point of changing the subject after that. </p><p>He continues like this for the next few practices, over the next few weeks. Ogawa has cryptid energy just as expected; Aone doesn’t say much of anything at all; Suishuu is… insane. </p><p>His next appointment with Kimura creeps up on him, and it’s time to try and fully engage in whatever process she decides to put him through this time. </p><p>They play their usual game of her asking how he’s doing, and he tells her that he is fine, but the second she starts pressing he divulges more information. </p><p>“How have you been getting on with your new team?”</p><p>Kiyoomi fiddles with his hands, flexing his fingers in a way which might look to be uncomfortable but which doesn’t bother him in the slightest. </p><p>“They’re okay,” Kiyoomi goes with. “I’m getting to know them. I’m still settling in.”</p><p>She peers at him over the top of her glasses. “Can you elaborate for me?”</p><p>“I mean, I’ve only been there for a couple of weeks. I don’t know what to tell you.”</p><p>“Tell me about them.”</p><p>Kiyoomi falters. “They’re,” A pause. “Very nice. Sweet.”</p><p>She says nothing, just watches him, and Kiyoomi feels that same old odd sensation of wanting to just let everything spill over, just to fill the silence.</p><p>He explains how uncomfortable it is on a new team where he doesn’t know anyone, the pressure he feels to be their ace and to carry the team, how he’s uncomfortable working with this setter and it’s not because he’s done anything wrong, it’s just—</p><p>“He’s not Atsumu and I don’t know if I know how to cope with it.”</p><p>She smiles, but it isn’t unkind. It’s knowing, like she suspected this all along. </p><p>She says nothing further on it, but scribbles something on her memo pad. She pivots into a new discussion, and Kiyoomi feels like a petulant child when she asks, “What have you found out about them?”  </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Who are they, outside of work?” </p><p>Kiyoomi blinks, then says, “Watanabe has two children and he says they terrorise him.” </p><p>“And did you find that out from him or did you read that before you met him?” </p><p>Kiyoomi purses his lips into a pout. “I don’t see why it matters.”</p><p>On she presses. “And what have you told them about you?”</p><p>“Not a lot,” Kiyoomi admits. “They know where my boundaries are. The showering, the preference for low-contact. I didn’t even have to tell them.”</p><p>“And how do you think that’s working out for you?” </p><p>“I don’t want to,” Kiyoomi answers, and it’s not a direct answer to the question, not really, but what she <em>means </em>is, ‘have you considered letting down your guard a little?’</p><p>“That’s okay,” Kimura says, with a soft smile. She reaches for her cup of coffee. “You can work on letting people in in your own time, Kiyoomi.”</p><p>His therapist’s words rattle around inside his head as he returns to practice the day after. Kiyoomi considers the notion of letting people know him in his entirety; no walls, no intentionally keeping people at an arm’s length just because. </p><p>He makes up his mind when Aone passes him a water bottle during a break. He’s quiet, and Kiyoomi had suspected they would get along for that very reason, but sitting at the side and gulping down mouthfuls of water is what confirms it. </p><p>“Your spikes are very difficult to block.” Kiyoomi looks to the side as Aone speaks to him for what may be the first time ever. He can’t think of any other time in the past few weeks where he has. </p><p>“Thank you.” Kiyoomi isn’t quite sure what else to say, but he’s appreciative of the compliment all the same. “Your blocks are hard to get through.” </p><p>Aone offers what Kiyoomi thinks is a smile. Over their lunch break, he offers onigiri with umeboshi, and Kiyoomi thinks that maybe—just maybe—things won’t be quite so bad. </p><p>His first negative interaction comes with Suishuu. The guy is louder than any and all of Kiyoomi’s previous teammates combined, which is a feat that Kiyoomi didn’t think was possible. He is wrong. He is so wrong, and it’s terrible. </p><p>The other terrible thing? Suishuu has taken to calling him <em>Bromi. </em>“You get it right? Because we’re bros now and people call you Omi. So Bromi it is!” </p><p>“Absolutely not.” How does he explain that they are in no way <em>bros </em>without sounding like a dick?

“Oh, c’mon, lighten up bro!” </p><p>“I’m not a lamp. I will not <em>lighten up.</em>” Kiyoomi does his best not to clench his teeth. </p><p>He hates the nicknames and the energy, and he’s almost at the point of saying he hates Suishuu as a person—but he doesn’t. He’s annoying and brash and loud and too confident in his own skills and he doesn’t know what personal space is and he clearly doesn’t take proper care of himself, judging from his instagram feed. </p><p>It pains him to realise it, but Kiyoomi knows deep down that his problem isn’t with Suishuu. Not really, and it’s not fair for Kiyoomi to demonise him because of a perceived similarity to someone who had done him wrong. </p><p>Still, he tries his best to avoid Suishuu as far as he feasibly can. It’s not easy, and especially not when they have friendly off-season games to play—including a nightmare game against the Frogs, who are quite possibly even more feral in their own way than Kiyoomi’s old teammates.</p><p>The team manager—a kindly older man named Sasaki Kenzou—asks Kiyoomi what number he wants on his jersey, and he falters. He hadn’t thought about it, and he goes to pick a number at random, but Sasaki beats him to talking again.</p><p>“We wondered if you might want the number four spot,” He says, and Kiyoomi feels his breath catch.</p><p>A stupid thing to get caught off-guard by, for sure, but there’s an implication in the words that Kiyoomi cannot avoid. He feels himself shaking his head before he’s even conscious of it; he is no ace. He is an excellent player and he can and will say that with confidence to anyone who asks, and he is at his best when he is surrounded by excellent teammates, but he is not an ace. There is a weight attached to that word that Kiyoomi is not ready to bear. Not now. Maybe not ever. And that’s okay; Kiyoomi is an excellent all-around player and he does not need to be that icon for this team. </p><p>“Then what would you prefer?” Sasaki’s voice is kind, and level, like he understands the tiny discussion Kiyoomi has just had with himself. </p><p>“When do you need to have an answer?” It shouldn’t be something terribly difficult to think about, but Kiyoomi cannot bear to wear a 15, or a 13, both of which he knows are free numbers in the Narwhals’ roster. He’d rather avoid any numbers that relate to the Jackals, now he thinks about it, and that writes off 12, 21, 6 and 9 for sure. Maybe he could have a 10, like back in high school, because the association with high school is stronger than that of Barnes. But—ah, no. That’s Hanayama’s number. </p><p>Perhaps it’s pathetic to associate numbers with people and not want to wear them, but Kiyoomi is not entirely sure how he’s supposed to overcome it yet. </p><p>“By the end of the week would be best.” Perhaps Sasaki had anticipated a problem with this, the way he had seemingly anticipated problems elsewhere, because he hands Kiyoomi a neatly printed sheet with a list of numbers and names printed beside them. These are the team numbers he realises, and they really are giving him free reign over what he wears during his time here. This is not like the Jackals, where players can progress into lower numbers by length of service on the team. When he thinks about it—he isn’t sure why progressing through numbers was a good idea anyway. Didn’t it make for confusion? </p><p>Or maybe it allowed the team to sell more jerseys every time a halfway popular player changed numbers. Kiyoomi could hardly begrudge that when he knew the financial situation of even Division 1 teams. Volleyball players were comfortable, not rich, and those that were absolutely supplemented their actual salary with sponsorships and advertisements. </p><p>By the end of the week though. Kiyoomi can work with that. It gives him time to consider his decision. </p><p>He still feels a bit stupid for needing time to think about it, and for being caught off-guard by the question in the first place—though to be fair, the Jackals had picked his number for him. Kiyoomi is unused to having this level of freedom.</p><p>He returns on Saturday to his pottery lesson, with everything weighing heavy on his mind. He has not picked a number, and he needs to have decided one by Monday. His therapist’s words linger; who is he, and who does he want to be, and is he really putting himself in a good position to achieve those last ones? He is barely letting anyone in, he is learning about others but not returning the favour, and—</p><p>He walks straight into another of the students at the studio, and he curses himself for being so thoughtless. He really is out of sorts, but he bows his head and says, “I’m sorry,” in the most genuine way that he is able to muster. </p><p>“It’s okay.” The man smiles. “We’ve not been introduced anyway! The name’s Minamoto Mizuki.” </p><p>...Seriously? He’s taking it as a reason to get introduced?</p><p>“Sakusa Kiyoomi.” He shrugs his shoulders, nods once and skulks over to the wheel that he has designated as his own. It doesn’t matter which wheel they work at, but this is the one that Kiyoomi returns to week after week. It’s in the corner, away from most people but also away from the storage area and the drying racks, which are areas people tend to congregate around. </p><p>He gets to throw his weight and frustration into wedging the clay, and that is always something he finds supremely satisfying. The thunks as the clay hits the table, the way he gets to work the meaty part of his hands into it, pressing and pulling on the clay until he’s satisfied there aren’t any air pockets to cause problems, and the clay has fallen into the signature rams head shape. </p><p>It’s when he gets the clay onto the wheel that he starts to get lost in the process. It doesn’t always happen; he is not consistent enough, and he is not familiar enough with the techniques to be able to do them subconsciously yet. </p><p>But sometimes, when things are coming together just right, he can feel his body beginning to move on instinct, can feel his fingers running over the cool clay in front of him, feel his thumbs pressing into pliant material, and everything just <em>works. </em>The rhythm of the wheel is soothing, the clay itself gives him a task to focus on, and the whirring is loud enough to quiet the storms that threaten to overtake his mind. </p><p>He thinks he understands the appeal of pottery now. Even on days where he doesn’t throw something good, even on days when his glazing is shoddy, he is granted three hours of respite from the worst that his own mind can do to him. </p><p>A glass of water appears beside him, and Kiyoomi looks up to see Minamoto standing there. “It’s warm in here.”</p><p>Kiyoomi furrows his eyebrows, but Minamoto is right. It is warm in here, probably because of all the people and the sort of exertion that pottery requires, and so he nods as he says, “Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.” Minamoto lingers, but doesn’t overstay his welcome, instead returning to his wheel, which is far away from Kiyoomi’s. </p><p>Except, the next time Kiyoomi has a class, Minamoto is at the workstation beside him. He’s the chatty sort—but the kind of chatty which is more akin to Motoya than to he-who-shall-not-be-named. He talks about the weather and asks polite questions about Kiyoomi’s job, and he tells stories about his job in return. He’s a postman, and there are many, many stories of dogs who like to say hello to him, and mercifully fewer stories about dogs who want to bite, instead. </p><p>He becomes a regular fixture in Kiyoomi’s lessons. Kiyoomi is surprised the one week he doesn’t show, but he’s full of apologies the next week and explains that he had to go and see his mother, with a hand scratching at the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed about it. </p><p>“What made you want to take up pottery?” Minamoto asks him, with a lopsided smile as one of Kiyoomi’s vases collapses on his wheel at the end of a session. </p><p>Kiyoomi thinks he might have alluded to it enough already in their prior conversations; Minamoto asking is just a formality, a need to know what the official ‘story’ is before he makes any more assumptions. It would be easy to say ‘I just had an interest,’ but it is both harder and truer to say, “My therapist suggested it.” </p><p>Minamoto does not run, or grimace, or do any of the other hundred and three things Kiyoomi might have expected him to. Instead, he offers a gentle smile, full of knowing. “Mine too.”</p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t quite know what to say, and instead he offers a nod and a sympathetic smile which he only hopes reaches his eye from underneath his mask. </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t know for sure yet, but he thinks that if anybody is going to be allowed to get under his skin—it might just be this one. </p><p>It’s almost not a surprise when Minamoto asks Kiyoomi if he might like to get a coffee after class. “There’s a good place just around the corner,” He says. “And they’re used to seeing people come in with clay under their nails.”</p><p>Kiyoomi bites back the part of him which wants to say <em>I prefer tea</em>. Instead, he says, “Okay. Sounds like fun.”</p><p>And he means it. </p><p>It’s not as awkward as Kiyoomi feared it might be. Kiyoomi isn’t <em>sure </em>that it’s meant to be a date, but Minamoto fumbles with his wallet to pay for both of their drinks, and even Kiyoomi has to admit that it’s sweet. </p><p>There’s a gentle buzz about the place; popular, but not overwhelmingly so. Kiyoomi sinks down into a leather armchair in a corner and relishes the way he can stretch his spine out. He does enjoy the pottery and working at the studio, but he’s really going to have to invest in an adjustable chair if he wants to continue. Hunching over his work can’t be good for him. </p><p>Minamoto sets a pot of tea in front of him, as well a matching mug and milk jug. It’s a cute tea set, soft pink in colour with white polka dots. </p><p>Kiyoomi pulls his mask down under his chin. The Assam tea is wonderful, and Kiyoomi really ought to find out which brand they’re using. It’s a beautiful dark colour, and even through the milk he adds, a Kiyoomi finds that he can still taste something a little malty and almost-bitter. </p><p>It’s a really good tea. He smiles, just a little. </p><p>“You don’t do that much,” Minamoto says, and Kiyoomi looks up from where he’d been looking into amber liquid. </p><p>“I don’t do what?”</p><p>“Smile. It’s just—it suits you.” </p><p>Kiyoomi isn’t quite sure what to say, and he lets his eyes flit to the side as Minamoto stumbles over his words to correct himself. “Sorry! It’s just that I used to think you were all scary and stoic and didn’t wanna talk to anyone ‘cause you didn’t smile much and now I’m like, oh cool, he doesn’t smile much but he’s actually a pretty nice guy and—I’m gonna be quiet.”</p><p>Kiyoomi finds himself making a terribly ungraceful noise not unlike a snort of laughter, but he doesn’t mean for it to be unkind. When he regains himself, it’s with a self-satisfied smirk that he asks, “So you like men who scare you, is that it?” </p><p>“Jerks with a heart of gold are my weakness. It’s tragic but true.”</p><p>Kiyoomi tries to hide the jolt in his chest (for he too once knew a jerk with a heart of gold; he is the reason Kiyoomi is even sat here in the first place) with, “You seem awfully sure about what type of person I am.” He can’t quite hide the curiosity in his voice. He should not and does not care about what other people think of him—and yet he is curious all the same. “Who says I have a heart of gold? Who says I have a heart at all?” </p><p>“You’re terribly dramatic, did you know?” Kiyoomi doesn’t quite get what he’s looking for, but there’s a wide smile on Minamoto’s face, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. Instead, if Kiyoomi didn’t know any better, he’d be inclined to say that perhaps Minamoto thought it was sweet.</p><p>He probably thinks Kiyoomi is—not sweet, because he hadn’t said it, but he <em>has </em>said, explicitly, that he thinks there’s something worth digging for, a gold nugget underneath all the shit. If there is one it’s tiny, in Kiyoomi’s professional opinion. Probably not worth the time. </p><p>The smile falls off his face in record time, but he refuses to let it turn into a scowl, or a frown, or anything other than something perfectly neutral. </p><p>He wonders what the hell it says about Minamoto that he doesn’t seem bothered. </p><p>He doesn’t get too much time to stew over his date-slash-not-date with Minamoto, even though he wants to think about it. He’d had a good time. Minamoto seemed like a nice enough guy. He took the shit that was thrown at him and responded with his own. And—he hadn’t run away at any of Kiyoomi’s attempts to put him off. The drama. The point about having a therapist up front. Things which might put a normal person off in quick order—things which had put normal people off before—he had not run away.</p><p>But Kiyoomi does not have time to overthink it with any of his usual vigour—there’s no eternal <em>was he just being nice what if i misread the signs what if he’s not actually interested</em>—because he has to travel across the country to play a game. His first in Division 2. Against the Frogs. He has to at least try to be in the right mindset to play, and that means that there simply isn’t the time to try and figure out his mental state in excruciating detail. </p><p>If the Narwhals win, he’ll text Minamoto. Ask to go for dinner, maybe. It’s not as though he really needs the incentive, but he’s given it to himself all the same. </p><p>He is wary when he steps into the gym, in spite of the avalanche of ‘good luck, it’ll be fine’ texts from Motoya. There are a number of faces that he recognises from competitions as a teenager; the blond with the glasses, who has already got something of a scowl on his face, but who nods politely at Hanayama and then Aone. The one with the terrible black streaks all gelled up, who bounds over to Aone like a lost puppy. There’s a third blond who Kiyoomi doesn’t recognise outside of videos examining the team, but there’s a terse acknowledgement in Aone’s direction from him, too, and Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder if Aone is secretly far better connected than his persona would have Kiyoomi believe. </p><p>They warm up. It’s an odd gym to get used to; he is still used to the size and scope of the Jackals’ gym, despite how long he’s been practicing with the Narwhals. It’s smaller in these gyms, only a few rows for spectators, and Kiyoomi thinks he might suffocate. There are glass windows high up on the walls and they let enough light and heat in that it’s hot. Too hot. He paces to the benches and grabs a bottle of water, gulping down two big swigs and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>He forces air into his lungs. His jersey feels heavy on his back, across his shoulders. He has chosen the number 7, and yet he doesn’t feel very lucky right now. Objectively, perhaps he still is. His conversations with Wakatoshi rest heavy in his mind; he has been blessed with height and quirks of the body that give him advantages in his chosen sport. Ironic how an <em>unlucky</em> cocktail of brain chemicals has chosen to seek to destroy him at every given opportunity. </p><p>Or perhaps destroy is too harsh a word. A tiny voice in the back of his head tells him that he must think carefully about his language, and so he corrects himself, with a murmured, “The chemicals do not have feelings. They do not have intent.”</p><p>It’s a hollow reminder, but a reminder all the same. His body is not <em>trying</em> to hurt his mind intentionally. </p><p>He gets to his feet again. He joins his team for warmups, and he stretches alongside Suishuu. </p><p>“I’ve been thinking,” Suishuu says.</p><p>Sakusa raises an eyebrow. “That’s dangerous. Thinking about what?”</p><p>“Since you’re Kiyoomi, and I’m Nagomi, and we’re both hitters, I think we should be calling ourselves the Omi-Omi duo, y’know? That’s one of your nicknames right? Omi?” </p><p>The nickname is sickening in its familiarity, and said with a lilt Kiyoomi couldn’t replicate even if he tried. </p><p>He thinks about shutting it down. Then he thinks about what he’d discussed with the therapist. He shrugs his shoulders instead, and it’s with an altogether wicked grin that he says, “Sure. Might be kinda lame if you play badly though. Dragging my name through the mud.”</p><p>“Hey! No fair!” Suishuu’s protests fall on deaf ears as Kiyoomi chuckles. </p><p>The first set of the game is arduous. Kiyoomi has settled about as well as can be expected; the team is competent enough, and even on bad days, Kiyoomi is able to play well. But—he feels the way his shoulders ache by the end of this first set. He is actively frustrated that receives he used to make go flying past him or he has to dive late for them. He is fooled by a setter dump that he would never have fallen for previously and he is left staring up at the player with the black spikes from where he’d dived in an attempt to receive it anyway. </p><p>But, he breaks through the tallest one’s blocks with an acceptable level of regularity even as his opponent scoffs. He pulls off a one handed receive by pure chance after a spike from the shorter blond, the one with the black streaks. His serves are all in bounds and don’t clip the net. </p><p>The Frogs are worthy opponents, even if they <em>do </em>have a funny little jump that they do after every point. (Belatedly, Kiyoomi realises they’re mimicking a frog hop). </p><p>Kiyoomi can see why they’re in contention to be promoted to Division 1, even though the Narwhals take the set. </p><p>The second set is difficult too, though Kiyoomi has found something of a rhythm. Hanayama’s tosses are nice and high. Kiyoomi puts every ounce of spite that he can muster into his jumps and then his spikes. Nagomi tries to high five him after every success—tries, but doesn’t necessarily succeed. Aone has a surprising ferocity that Kiyoomi had never picked up from watching videos. </p><p>They win the second set handily, and Kiyoomi retreats to the benches for water.</p><p>He is learning about his teammates. He cannot stop the way his mind wanders to thinking about Atsumu, how maybe he would have set just a little higher, just a little further from the net. He cannot stop himself thinking about the missing “Nice shot, babe”s. But he can focus on giving feedback to Hanayama. The tosses feel good but not great. </p><p>Kiyoomi scolds himself for not prioritising this relationship above the others. His—acquaintanceship with Aone is much needed, but ultimately useless in this context. They do not need to be friends in order to block well together, but Kiyoomi does need to have a functional relationship with a setter. Even this one, who arguably has less technical skill than Kiyoomi’s last. </p><p>Aone hands him a water bottle wordlessly. Kiyoomi nods. </p><p>He has the beginnings of a way out, and in the interim—well, he’s playing well enough that it shouldn’t matter too much. </p><p>He swigs his water, rakes a hand through his hair to push it out of his face and returns to the court with a far more determined attitude than before. They can win this. They will win this. </p><p>The third set, though, the Narwhals do not win. The errors on their side are obvious. A flubbed serve here, a missed receive there. A sloppy block, a failed setter dump.  it’s also fair to say that the Frogs’ opposite hitter—the blond one, the one who looks angry—gets better as time goes on, practically whipping the ball across the court at angles and speeds that rival Kiyoomi’s. His means of achieving it are different, with odd run-ups and lead-ins to spikes, rather than some kind of natural quirk, and yet—</p><p>Kiyoomi has never seen someone who can hit quite the same way he can, and if he smiles to himself, just a little, because now there is someone he is curious about—he doesn’t think many people will see it. </p><p>The fourth set is intense. Kiyoomi’s thighs are finally starting to ache. He throws himself into receives anyway. He sprints towards the net. He jumps as high as he can. He connects. He emergency-sets to Nagomi. He calls for tosses until he is hoarse. The court is one glorious place where he can forget, forget, forget and he does, does, does. He moves on instinct; well-honed instinct after so many years. A smash of a spike through a block. A service ace.</p><p>The world falls away. His opponents fall to their knees. </p><p>Kiyoomi scores the winning point off of a spike. There is a thrill in watching, practically in slow-motion, the way the opposing libero lands on his front after a failed receive, and the way the blockers fall backwards, arms whipping out in a desperate attempt to keep the ball up. </p><p>They line up and shake hands with their opponents. They bow to the audience, which is far smaller than Kiyoomi is used to. But Watanabe claps him on the back, says, “You did good out there, newbie,” and he sets off a chain reaction of the others ruffling his hair and offering fist bumps. It’s not as comfortable as such gestures would have been with the Jackals, but Kiyoomi doesn’t mind it so much. He misses the familiar hair-ruffle of a job well done—but he doesn’t allow himself to think about that too much. </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t even hate it when Suishuu bounds over, dabs and practically screams, “Hell yeah Omi! We rocked it out there! Omi-Omi duo supremacy!”</p><p>He knows that he didn’t play his best. But in that final set, he could be forgiven for believing that he had. </p><p>The bus journey home is quiet. It is fair to say that everyone is exhausted; it was an early start to the day, a difficult game, and now it is late. Late, but not so late as to be a bad time to send a text.</p><p>Kiyoomi finds himself wondering if Minamoto would even care if he got a text at a weird time of the day. Probably not. </p><p>He types out a message.</p><p>Deletes it.</p><p>Types another one. </p><p>Deletes that, too.</p><p>His frustration with the process must show on his face, for Aone, who is perhaps the one person who is not asleep—a fact for which Kiyoomi is grateful, for he does not think he could cope with incessant questioning from Suishuu, or Hamasaki’s all-too-knowing smile—raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Just trying to send a text,” Kiyoomi murmurs it. It’s safe here, in the relative dark. The streetlights flicker them into relief every few seconds, and it is in one of those moments that he sees that the curiosity on Aone’s face has not gone away. </p><p>“I had a date,” He elaborates, perhaps even quieter than before. It’s an oddly hard thing to admit to, even though Kiyoomi is sure that, of anyone, Aone is probably the best person to talk about these things with. Kiyoomi may not understand what happens inside his head a lot of the time, and he is so quiet that he never explains it out loud, but the one thing he is sure of is that he can put his trust here. He can and will force a level of vulnerability that he has been avoiding with his teammates for weeks now. </p><p>He’ll make a mental note that he’s doing it, too. He’ll have to report back on it to the therapist. </p><p>“I wanted to ask him if he’d like to go out again.” </p><p>Aone wordlessly reaches out his hand, and Kiyoomi furrows his eyebrows until he realises what it is Aone wants. Kiyoomi is reluctant to hand over his phone, but he does it. He watches as Aone taps carefully on the screen, meticulously, taking his time, and Kiyoomi does his best not to worry. Aone is a nice person. He won’t do anything stupid. </p><p>The worry doesn’t fully subside until his phone is pressed back into his hands, and Kiyoomi can inspect the kind of message that’s been sent—</p><p>Except it isn’t sent. Instead, there’s a politely worded, clear message asking if perhaps Minamoto might want to go for dinner on Saturday night. </p><p>It should have been easy to come up with something similar by himself, but Kiyoomi is grateful for the help regardless. </p><p>He taps send and locks his phone. He doesn’t want to see if he gets left on read, and instead he turns his attention back to Aone. “Didn’t think you were the kind of guy to help other people with their love lives.”</p><p>“I’ve had practice.” Aone is careful not to disturb the quiet either, but somehow that doesn’t feel like a surprise. </p><p>“Practice,” Kiyoomi repeats. “You’re secretly a matchmaker?”</p><p>“Kenji,” Aone says, and Kiyoomi supposes it must be a name. “An old teammate. And his partner.”</p><p>It’s like pulling teeth to try and get more information, but Kiyoomi presses anyway. “And you helped them get together?”</p><p>Aone sighs, looks out the window and turns his attention back to Kiyoomi. Then, he talks for probably the longest consecutive amount of time that Kiyoomi has heard from him. “Yes. Kenji was struggling with how to ask Chikara out. He used to complain about it to me. Eventually I learned how to help him draft texts.”</p><p>Kiyoomi manages a soft smile under his mask. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Just wait until I tell you how my high school captain taught us all how to knit.”</p><p>Kiyoomi can’t hold back his snort of laughter. </p><p>Dinner with Minamoto is at a quiet, out-of-the-way Italian place. “It’s really authentic,” Minamoto tells him as they walk there together, “I went to Italy once with my parents and I’m telling you, this stuff is identical to what we had there.”</p><p>“How long ago was it that you visited?”</p><p>“About five years ago now? It was really good, even if none of us speak any Italian. Super pretty place, the food is great, loads of history and stuff. I think you’d like it.” Minamoto flashes a smile, “And if you need travel tips—I mean I’d say I’m the guy, but I guess I only went once, so probably not, huh?” </p><p>Kiyoomi is grateful to his face mask for letting him hide the fond smile that graces his lips. “You’ve been there more times than anyone else I know. I think that makes you the go-to person if I need advice.” </p><p>The street leading to the restaurant is quiet; they don’t pass all too many people. Kiyoomi much prefers it to the bustle of the main streets, which are often so loud he can’t hear himself think, let alone hold a conversation, never mind all the <em>germs.</em></p><p>Soon enough though, Minamoto is gesturing with his hand and opening a door for Kiyoomi. The restaurant itself is cosy, like they’ve walked into someone’s actual house; there are pictures on the walls with a caption explaining that it’s a family restaurant and has been with them for fifty years; clutter, but in a nice way Kiyoomi supposes, flower vases on surfaces, candles on the tables, knick-knacks on the walls, onions hanging from the ceiling and even a small bookcase in the corner. </p><p>It’s an odd sort of place, with the illusion of familiarity, a gentle pretense of comfort, though it’s comfort from a place that Kiyoomi has never actually known. </p><p>It’s easy to settle in here, Kiyoomi realises, and it’s easy to take Minamoto’s suggestions for food (Kiyoomi isn’t unfamiliar with Italian cuisine, though it’s clear to see that Minamoto knows more) and wine to go with it. </p><p>They talk about all kinds of things. Travel to start with; Minamoto is very interested in Kiyoomi’s trips to France and Greece. Art. Literature. Video games—which some people could say seems out of place, but Kiyoomi is adamant that the participatory visual medium opens up whole new possibilities for storytelling. </p><p>Kiyoomi talks quite a lot more than he perhaps normally would—it’s just that it’s easy to talk to Minamoto, and he <em>listens </em>and he <em>asks thoughtful questions </em>that prompt a longer response. He’s a good conversationalist. Or perhaps it’s the wine making everything easier; before Kiyoomi’s realised it, they’ve polished off a second bottle. He really, really shouldn’t have had any; it’s empty calories and he’ll probably regret it tomorrow. </p><p>But when was the last time he got to have fun like this? </p><p><em>You know when, </em>his brain replies, unhelpfully. The problem is that he does know when; shenanigans and illicit drinking were practically a bonding exercise at the Jackals. Kiyoomi didn’t often participate, but it didn’t stop he-who-shall-not-be-named from trying to make him join in anyway. </p><p>He shakes his head, mentally flicks away the stray thought and returns his attention to the man in front of him. Kind, sweet, thoughtful Minamoto, who has opinions on everything but wants to listen to Kiyoomi’s too. </p><p>“So, about that movie you mentioned earlier…”</p><p>They linger for a long time in the restaurant, until the sky is thoroughly dark when Kiyoomi looks through a window, and the candle wicks have run low. </p><p>“It’s getting late,” Kiyoomi remarks. He pulls his phone from his pocket and raises both eyebrows at quite how much time they’ve spent here; it’s easily been two and nearly three hours. Perhaps he ought to be embarrassed at spending so much time here, though he supposes it isn’t a big loss given that the restaurant has been fairly quiet. At least as far as he’s aware. Kiyoomi isn’t beyond getting so wrapped up in whatever he’s doing that he forgets other people exist, though, so he isn’t sure. </p><p>If they were truly overstaying their welcome, he is sure that Minamoto would have made it clear. </p><p>“It is,” Minamoto agrees. “I’ll just pay and then we can walk back.”</p><p>“I’m paying.” It’s a statement of fact that Kiyoomi knows already that he will not budge on.</p><p>“No, hey, let—”</p><p>“I’m paying,” Kiyoomi repeats, and he pulls his credit card from his wallet before he can hear any arguments to the contrary. Then, before he can think too hard about it, “You can pay next time.” </p><p>Kiyoomi watches the smile break out over Minamoto’s face, and he is struck with the first flicker of sunlight on a grey sort of day. </p><p>“Next time,” Minamoto repeats as Kiyoomi hands over his card to the waitress. “I’m holding you to that.”</p><p>“You better not let me down, then.” </p><p>They bundle back up in coats—and for Kiyoomi, a mask—once they’ve paid, and head back out into the street. The air may be cool, but Kiyoomi is warmed from the inside out by good food and good wine and—most importantly—good company. </p><p>The chatter is easy; gentle, polite discussion of safe topics that couldn’t possibly turn someone off. Kiyoomi would so hate to put his foot in it now, after what can only be called a very successful date. </p><p>He cannot miss the unmistakable feeling of knuckles knocking against his own, and he doesn’t think he wants to. Kiyoomi lets his fingers link with Minamoto’s, and he nods when he catches the, “Is this okay for you?” </p><p>It’s not perfect. Kiyoomi supposes that Minamoto’s hands may be clammy from nerves, and normally that would send Kiyoomi running off to find sanitiser, or to wash his hands for a solid minute. Tonight, it doesn’t. With Minamoto, it doesn’t, or at least not to the degree Kiyoomi expects. </p><p>So it is with linked hands that they continue their walk. They’re able to walk the vast majority of their routes home together as it happens, but eventually they part ways, in the middle of the park Kiyoomi goes running in, early in the morning. </p><p>There are soft yellow bulbs in old-fashioned streetlights. There’s the unmissable sound of bubbling water from a fountain somewhere beyond the trees around them. The moon is high and full, Minamoto is still holding his hand and Kiyoomi wonders if this is what happiness looks like.</p><p>“I had a really good time, Ki- Sakusa.” </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t miss the slip-up, and murmurs, “You can use my first name if you like.” He’s never been particularly precious about it, and so giving permission is easy. </p><p>“Kiyoomi,” Minamoto says, trying it out. “I like the sound of that.”</p><p>Kiyoomi smiles under his mask, and he can feel that it reaches the corners of his eyes, too. </p><p>He is reluctant to let go of Minamoto’s hand—despite his complaints, he has missed this, has missed the hearty reassurance that comes only from physical touch with someone trusted—but there’s only so long they can stand at these crossroads. They will have to part. </p><p>So it is with reluctance that Kiyoomi lets go of Minamoto’s hand, and it is with reluctance that he says, “I had a good time too, Mina—” A pause, “Mizuki.” Reluctance—but it is only reluctant because it means that this is goodbye, at least for now. </p><p>“See you soon, Kiyoomi,” Mizuki says, and Kiyoomi offers a wave of his hand before he turns to leave. </p><p>Turns to leave, but does not get to leave, for Mizuki speaks again. It isn’t all that loud, but it feels it for the night is so still around them. “Before you go, actually.” </p><p>Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow as he turns back, though it’s hidden underneath his hair. “Yes?” </p><p>He watches as Mizuki stands up straight, pulls his shoulders back and takes a deep breath. “It’s just that I would very much like to kiss you.” </p><p>Kiyoomi stares. He does not mean to. He also does not mean to search for any possible misinterpretation of the words or over analyze it; did Mizuki really just say kiss? Did he say it because he actually wants to or because it’s an expected part of a second date? What if a kiss isn’t really just a kiss, because that’s happened before, Kiyoomi, you remember what happened when you tried to get affectionate with the last one—</p><p>Kiyoomi must not have said anything, or his face must have been unreadable, because suddenly Mizuki is frantically waving his arms out in front of him and falling over his words, all in one big run-on breath that Kiyoomi isn’t even sure he understands in its entirety.. </p><p>“It’s just that I really want to but it’s okay if you don’t because you have the mask and I guess you wear a facemask if you don’t like germs and I guess kissing must be really gross then and I’m sorry there’s no pressure please don’t do it just because I want to I respect your boundaries and if you say no it’s totally fine please don’t feel pressured and-”</p><p>Kiyoomi pulls his mask down. He dips his head and becomes far more conscious of their half-foot height difference than ever before. Then, he closes his eyes and places one short, chaste kiss to the middle of Mizuki’s lips. </p><p>It’s with fondness, and perhaps just a little mischief that he pulls away and pulls his mask back up. “Goodnight, Mizuki.”</p><p>Kiyoomi sleeps well that night. </p><p>But when he dreams, it is not of Minamoto Mizuki. </p><p>Kiyoomi continues with the pottery lessons around his games and team practices; though at this point, it’s less like beginner’s lessons and more like novice practices. Pottery, as with all things, is a skill that requires patience and persistence and a willingness to try again when things go wrong.  </p><p>He gets coffee, or tea, (or one time even hot chocolate) after every lesson, with Mizuki in the same little cafe. They sit in the same seats, and they talk about all kinds of things, conversations which make Kiyoomi think, and articulate himself, and that draw on all sorts of little experiences he has had. Kiyoomi has visited Mizuki’s apartment and he allowed himself to spend the night there, on more than one occasion; it had been cleaned specially, and Mizuki did not mind when Kiyoomi brought his own pillow. He has been nothing but patient when Kiyoomi explains his aversions to sex. He didn’t get offended when Kiyoomi invited him over and then felt weird about bringing someone over to an apartment he used to share with Miya, and cancelled. </p><p>On paper, Mizuki is the perfect guy. In theory, he is nothing short of made for Kiyoomi. </p><p>There is no reason for Kiyoomi not to like him. There is no reason for Kiyoomi to not have his heart flutter when Mizuki walks by. There is no reason that a small little seedling of love should not be beginning to sprout. </p><p>And yet. </p><p>They are four months into—whatever this is. A relationship. A ‘we’re seeing each other’. A ‘we go on dates and hang out’. A ‘we only had sex one time and it wasn’t great but we laughed a lot’. </p><p>Four months in, and Kiyoomi knows he should be feeling differently. He likes Mizuki. He really does, but it’s plain to see that Mizuki likes Kiyoomi a hell of a lot more than Kiyoomi likes him. </p><p>Kiyoomi is loathe to say that he is not over Miya, but it is the only rational explanation for why thoughts of him intrude on every date and follow Kiyoomi to his dreams. It’s just not fair. </p><p>He knows what he must do, but he has no idea how on earth to go about it. He knows that with every day he waits, he is being unfair, leading a perfectly pleasant person down a path with no exit. </p><p>It isn’t altogether willingly that he thinks back on the last major interaction he had had with Miya,  but it is Kiyoomi’s only point of reference. He makes himself a pot of tea, and retraces the steps of that day with a mug in hand. </p><p>He’d been caught off-guard when he’d gotten home, and coaxed into the kitchen without much of an explanation. He’ll have to be careful of those things with Mizuki. They haven’t explicitly talked about the reason Mizuki is seeing a therapist, but Kiyoomi has concluded that it’s some kind of anxiety issue. They’re not so dissimilar at their core. </p><p>Into the kitchen. The tea had been good. The location had been bad. </p><p>Kiyoomi eyes the mysterious mark on the wall and wonders how much money will come out of the deposit when he finally leaves. </p><p>He sits at the side of the table he has not sat at since that day. He closes his eyes, and the words ‘I’ve not been happy for a while now,’ come to mind without being prompted. They are just a little quieter than before. Not quite so deafening. Not quite so fast, not quite so insistent. </p><p>Kiyoomi opens his eyes once more. When he looks up, he half expects Atsumu to be there, caught by the early morning light at the window. He always did have a habit of staring out the window with a coffee in his hands. </p><p>Or perhaps he’d be there, right in front of Kiyoomi, telling him again how he’s not been happy. </p><p>That’s the more accurate version of him, and the one Kiyoomi tries to keep centered in his mind. </p><p>He does not know how to prepare for this. He does not know how to do this in a nice way. He does not know if he will be able to look Mizuki in the face after he does it. </p><p>Kiyoomi sighs and heads back to bed. He tells himself he will think about it some more when he gets back up. </p><p>Instead, Kiyoomi only thinks about it again when he’s sat in front of his therapist at the end of the week. It’s impossible to avoid the topic when she asks how things are going. </p><p>“I need to cut it off with him,” Kiyoomi says, though he refuses to meet Kimura’s eyes. </p><p>She doesn’t say anything, just watches his face, and before Kiyoomi knows it he’s filling the silence. “He’s nice. He’s really nice, it’s just…” His voice trails off and he glances at the floor before steeling himself to meet Kimura’s eyes. “I keep thinking about Miya. And that’s not fair.”</p><p>Kimura considers him, then asks, “Have you figured out how you’re going to break the news?”</p><p>“I’m working on it,” Kiyoomi answers, with a half-hearted shrug. Kimura says nothing, so Kiyoomi continues, “I don’t want him to be caught off-guard. That feels like shit. And it can’t be in a place he has to come back to a lot, because that feels like shit too.”</p><p>Kimura has an all-too-knowing look in her eye when she asks, “So how is the hunt for the new apartment going?” </p><p>Kiyoomi heaves a sigh. “I’m working on that as well. Promise.”</p><p>Kiyoomi’s plan comes to pass a few days later. He’d phoned, not texted, one morning to arrange a meet up. He’d made it clear that they needed to have a conversation about the relationship and where it was going, and while Mizuki’s voice had been hesitant, he’d asked “Where and when?”</p><p>Kiyoomi arranges for them to meet in a mutually inconvenient cafe. He arrives first, and he has Mizuki’s usual order—a matcha latte—ready and waiting. Kiyoomi sips on Earl Grey as he waits. </p><p>Mizuki stumbles in from the outside, face nipped pink from the wind outside. He spies Kiyoomi and perches on the armchair opposite, smiling as he lifts his drink. “Thank you, Kiyoomi.” He takes a sip, licks the foam off of his top lip, then asks, “What did you want to talk about?” </p><p>Kiyoomi thinks Mizuki knows what’s coming. There’s a look in his eyes that Kiyoomi cannot name, but he is certain means that Mizuki has thought about what this conversation could mean. There are only two outcomes of a conversation like this: cutting things off, or making things official. Kiyoomi does not think it would be so serious if it were the latter. </p><p>He shakes his head, more for himself, because he knows he is about to wander down a path of trying to figure out what someone else is thinking. </p><p>He puts his teacup back on the table, clasps his hands together and rests them on his lap, then says, “Forgive me, because I’m about to be very blunt, but I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding—”</p><p>Mizuki holds up one hand, and it’s with a half-hearted smile that he says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. You don’t want to do this any more. Right?” </p><p>Kiyoomi pauses, blinking stupidly, then nods. “That’s right. It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good person, Mizuki, I just—” His words catch, and he furrows his eyebrows, unsure how much he should reveal. </p><p>“Is it because of Atsumu?” Mizuki’s voice is quiet. “It’s okay if it is.”</p><p>Kiyoomi does not answer immediately, and he knows from prior experience that sometimes no answer is an answer in itself. </p><p>“It’s okay,” Mizuki repeats, and Kiyoomi can’t tell whose benefit the reassurance is for. “I didn’t realise when I asked you to get coffee at the time, but—” He pauses, shrugging his shoulders, “I saw an article a while after that said you’d just broken up with someone. I get it.”</p><p>Kiyoomi can’t quite find the words to say. He never can, can he? He lands on, “I’m sorry, Mizuki. I wish things were different,” but he knows that that cannot be enough to explain the way he wishes they had met earlier, or maybe later, the way he wishes he had picked up their shared hobby at a time when he wasn’t still hung up on his ex, the way he wishes his brain would just let him have some peace, the way he wishes things could just be better for them both. </p><p>Mizuki nods. They finish their drinks in silence. There are so many more things Kiyoomi wants to say but he doesn’t know where to start, and so he doesn’t. </p><p>Mizuki stands to leave first, and he offers a tiny wave. “I’ll see you in class, Kiyoomi.”</p><p>“See you in class, Mizuki.”</p><p>They do, in fact, see each other in class, but they do not sit together, and they certainly do not talk. Kiyoomi can’t exactly blame him for not wanting to. On the upside, his class time is uninterrupted, and that means he can glaze some flower pots they’ve been working on as their project. Kiyoomi’s are not perfect, but he knows they will be functional. Perhaps he can send it to Wakatoshi for his birthday. With a new plant. Wakatoshi always did like plants. He really ought to send something to Motoya too, now he thinks of it. Perhaps Motoya wants a new plant and pot to put it in as well. </p><p>Despite the awkwardness, it is three blissful hours of working to a routine and getting lost in the rhythm of creating.</p><p>Kiyoomi does not know what he would do without it. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please be aware that there is a scene at a bar in this chapter; it's fairly obvious where it is.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m in town for a game next weekend if you wanted to hang out after. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my favourite cousin!” </p><p>The call comes during a session at the studio, and so Kiyoomi puts Motoya on loudspeaker while he works. It’s a glazing session today, for Kiyoomi has been trying to master the art of making his items <em>pretty </em>as well as functional. </p><p>Motoya is right; it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. It’s an unfortunate reality that three years playing in the division below Motoya’s means that there has been far fewer opportunities for impromptu catch-ups when they travel for games. It’s also an unfortunate reality that, as a result, it’s been several months since they’ve last seen each other in person.</p><p>Kiyoomi huffs a laugh at the phrasing, and replies, “I’m the only cousin who talks to you though, aren’t I? Let’s get dinner.”</p><p>Not only does Motoya make plans for dinner and maybe drinks after the game, but he sends Kiyoomi a ticket to attend the game in-person. He’d offered more than one, in case Kiyoomi had wanted to bring anyone along—Kiyoomi had thought of asking Mizuki, but Mizuki’s boyfriend’s parents are in town. Kiyoomi suspects it might be the weekend that <em>boyfriend </em>gets upgraded to <em>fiancé</em>, so he doesn’t press. He’d offered a ticket to Aone as well, but he too is busy (he volunteers at the weekend, and he’s loathe to miss it), so Kiyoomi decides he can just go alone. There are worse things than watching a game alone.  </p><p>EJP and MSBY. A front-row seat. Kiyoomi hasn’t attended a game for either team as a spectator in over a year—and actually, he’s never watched his old team play in-person. </p><p>It’s an odd thing, looking at the roster changes that have happened. Goshiki is now well-established in Kiyoomi’s old role. Hinata has left the country. Bokuto and Miya are absolutely the old hands of the team, and there are younger players who Kiyoomi knows of but knows very little about. </p><p>He wonders if, had he managed to stay, he’d even be playing. There’s a spike of something uncomfortable in his chest, and he knows that he absolutely shouldn’t entertain this train of thought, but he can’t help but <em>what if</em>. What if he’d managed to hold it together and stay with the Jackals longer? Would he still be playing? If he had, would he have been allowed to represent his country for the one and only home Olympics he’d ever see in his lifetime? </p><p>What is it like in the locker rooms now? Are they still as loud? He used to pretend to hate it, but the reality of the situation was that the noise had been soothing, in a way, the absolute chaos around him had always reminded him of how good he was at holding himself together—</p><p>It’s an odd thing, being nostalgic for something that he cannot ever experience again, for a team and a place that doesn’t exist any more. Kiyoomi wonders if there’s a complicated word for this feeling in another language. Maybe German. Or Welsh. </p><p>“Well if it isn’t fucking Omi-Omi. What are you doing here?” </p><p>It takes Kiyoomi a second to place the voice, but when he looks up he is wholly unsurprised to see Miya Osamu standing there. </p><p>He’d always liked Osamu. He had always been an idiot, much like his brother, but at least he hid it behind the pretense of sensibility. </p><p>“Remarkably, I’m here to watch the game.” </p><p> “No shit.” Osamu drops into the seat beside Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi wonders if he might have to sit with him all game. They had been friendly enough in the past, but it has also been years since they last spoke. </p><p>“How’re you holding up, anyway?” The question catches Kiyoomi off guard, and he drags his eyes away from the court where both teams are warming up. He raises an eyebrow at the phrasing; he is not fragile, not any more at least, and he doesn’t know that there’s anything about his appearance that should suggest he is anything less than fine. </p><p>Osamu corrects himself. “I just mean—how have you been?” </p><p>“Fine,” Kiyoomi says with a shrug. He doesn’t owe Osamu an explanation of how tricky the last three years have been. Anyone who genuinely cares about how he is knows already, for they’ve been checking in with him ever since things went wrong to start with. “How are things with you? I hear you’ve got another couple of stores open.” </p><p>Kiyoomi hasn’t visited them, but having known Osamu a few short years ago, it’s plain to see he’s doing better now. His clothes are made of a better fabric, and while Kiyoomi doesn’t recognise the small logo on his shirt, it looks expensive. </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t really need to listen to, “Oh, yeah! We’re up to five now. Never expected it to take off the way it did, but it helps that Rin and Tsumu do promo stuff—and your cousin? He’s stopped by a couple times and put pictures up on insta and stuff like that. It helps a lot.” </p><p>Kiyoomi forces a smile. He used to hate being dragged into selfies with Atsumu in the name of ‘promotional services for family members,’ but it seems that things like that really did help Osamu out, so he can’t begrudge it too much. </p><p>“I’m at the Osaka branch all week,” Osamu offers. “If you wanna stop by, I mean. Whatever you want, on the house.”</p><p>“I’m no good to you for promo, Osamu.” If that’s what he wants, then he is going to be bitterly disappointed. Besides; Kiyoomi is no longer living locally. Amagasaki and Osaka aren’t that far apart, but it would still require a special trip.</p><p>Osamu makes a face, and Kiyoomi is reminded of how similar Osamu is to his brother, because for as much as they tried to deny it they had the same bank of facial expressions to pull from. That one is one which graced Miya’s features more times than Kiyoomi could count. </p><p>“I’m not asking you to come by for promo stuff. I’m not a dick. Just come by if you want some food.” </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Kiyoomi feels very stupid, but he’s long since mastered not letting things like that show on his face, so he probably hasn’t gone red. Probably. </p><p>It’s quiet. It’s awkward. An awkward quiet, and those are the worst, though Osamu doesn’t seem to mind much at all, and Kiyoomi is just sat there scrambling for something, anything to say to try and fill the empty air and—</p><p>“I watched one of your games the other day.” Osamu breaks the silence for him. “Had a livestream going while I was working.”</p><p>“Oh. Thanks.” </p><p>“You ever consider moving back up a division? You’re still good enough for it.” </p><p>Kiyoomi peers at him. It’s not a question Osamu should have asked. Kiyoomi knows it. Osamu knows it, and he gives an apologetic little smile. It’s one that’s probably gotten him out of all sorts of trouble in the past.</p><p>Kiyoomi considers the letter sitting in the hallway of his apartment. He considers the contract. All it would take is a few quick lines of ink and he could be back in Division 1, back with a team where there are eyes on him, back with higher paying sponsorships—

But it also brings added stress. Increased risk of injury, and he’s already been struggling with his shoulder for the past few months, and working extensively with the Narwhals’ physio. There’s no guarantee that he would be able to play at the next Olympics even if he moved back up. He’d almost certainly lose some free time, and he’s grown accustomed to the schedule he now keeps. Practice, physio if needs be, freelancing if he needs extra cash and his parents have deigned not to provide it, and then pottery when he can. </p><p>It’s not a fancy or luxurious existence, but Kiyoomi has never claimed to need one in the first place. </p><p>“Sometimes,” Kiyoomi admits. It feels good to say it out loud, but he’s careful not to say too much. “Not sure I’d be able to keep up with it.” That’s more than Osamu needs to know, anyway. </p><p>Osamu nods, but he doesn’t say anything, and they fall into another vaguely uncomfortable silence. </p><p>He watches the teams warm up. Watches the way his old friends, his old teammates, do their passing drills, spiking drills, all of the usual activities just to get themselves into the right headspace to play and play well. </p><p>He sees a mess of blond hair and a cocky grin and then actively watches Atsumu high-five Bokuto. </p><p>“How is Atsumu doing?” The words are out of Kiyoomi’s mouth before he can stop them. </p><p>Osamu glances at him, finally looking up from where he’d been paying rapt attention to EJP’s number 9. “He’s alright, yeah. Doing pretty well for himself, all things considered.” </p><p>That much has been plain to see. Brand deals left, right and center. Some not-cringey TV advertisements. He’d been on talk shows. Kiyoomi had forced himself to watch one of them. Miya had done well on it, even if Kiyoomi had hardly recognised who he’d become. Or maybe it was just a mask for the audience. </p><p>Either way, ‘pretty well’ was an understatement. </p><p>“Send him my regards, would you?” </p><p>“Your regards? Are we in the nineteenth century?” </p><p>“You know what I mean.”

Osamu considers him, eyes Kiyoomi’s face like he’s looking for a reason not to. </p><p>“I’m not a fuckin’ carrier pigeon, but I’ll tell him you said hey.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>There is so much more Kiyoomi wants to say, so many answers he wants to questions he has never had an opportunity to ask and which he may not <em>get </em>an opportunity to ask again. But it is foolish, and he knows it, and there is no point ruminating on the <em>whys </em>from that long ago. It won’t bring him closure. Knowing what Miya’s breaking point was won’t solve anything or make it any easier to work on the issues he’s already working on. Knowing who Miya ran to and sought comfort in after everything happened will not do him any good. </p><p>It is an act of self-care that he does not ask for any more information. He is past this, even if there still exists a tiny voice in the back of his mind that still says <em>you might have been able to save it if you’d tried harder. </em>Kiyoomi does not think that voice will ever go away entirely. That’s okay, because at least he’s learning how to turn down the volume and look the other way. </p><p>“You could always talk to him yourself,” Osamu points out. “You don’t <em>need </em>me to tell him you say hey.”</p><p>Kiyoomi arches an eyebrow, and that’s enough to have Osamu changing his tune. “Alright, alright, I’ll make sure to tell him.”</p><p>This time, when they fall quiet, it’s until the actual occupier of the seat next to Kiyoomi comes to sit down, mere moments before the game is due to actually start. 
</p><p>“See you around, Omi.” </p><p>“See you, Samu.” </p><p>The game is intense. It’s always incredibly different, watching a game from the stands instead of the courtside recordings that get shown on the television. It looks so much faster from here. </p><p>It’s EJP who win the game, after a frankly <em>nasty </em>block from their number 9. </p><p>Kiyoomi sits in the stands as the crowds filter out. He watches as the players stretch tired muscles out, and only then does he leave. There isn’t <em>that </em>long before he’s due to meet Motoya, after all. </p><p>Kiyoomi is twenty-seven and that makes Miya twenty-eight, but when Kiyoomi looks at him all he can see is the same sixteen year old who had too many questions and opinions and wasn’t sure what to do with them. </p><p>Kiyoomi hadn’t expected Miya to be here, nor had he expected half of the crowd of people who had apparently decided to show up. When he nudges Motoya’s ribs and asks, “What gives?” he gets an answer of, “Suna invited himself along, and then Washio did, and he invited Bokuto who invited Atsumu. Osamu’s only here because Suna is.”</p><p>Kiyoomi debates whether he should leave. Miya wasn’t expecting him to be here, judging from the way he has fallen quiet despite the ruckus of nearly a dozen people. He wishes he could know if that’s the case with absolute certainty, but absolute certainty will always evade him where Miya is concerned now, the same way it evades him with everyone else.</p><p>Perhaps once, that thought would have scared him, but now he is able to face it head on. He doesn’t know what Miya is thinking—but he also doesn’t know what anyone here is thinking. What Sakusa does know is that his cousin asked him to be here, and that he wants to spend time with him, and so he stays put and accepts the drinks that are pressed into his hands.  </p><p>It’s… a lesson in chasing what makes him happy being put into action. </p><p>He was never particularly close with any of the others who are there; he knows who Suna is by virtue of having played against him in high school, and later with the Jackals. </p><p>He knows Osamu, obviously. Seeing him sit beside his brother though, Kiyoomi isn’t actually sure that he’d be able to reliably tell the two of them apart any more. Not the way he used to be able to do it on sight, even when they were bundled up in hats and coats that hid their hair and the way Atsumu’s shoulders were broader. </p><p>As the night goes on, he finds his eyes wandering back to Atsumu and the stupid, stupid white shirt he has on. </p><p>Kiyoomi shouldn’t stare, and he knows he shouldn’t, but it’s been three years and he hasn’t drank with company in a <em>while </em>and so he finds himself far too affected by too few drinks. He will regret it in the morning, he’s sure, but for now he thinks he can let himself make bad decisions. </p><p>That he is having to consciously make the choice to make a bad decision is not lost on him, but at least he is letting himself make them. </p><p>He doesn’t complain when Washio leaves to get a drink and everyone scooches around in the booth they’re sat in, even though it means that Kiyoomi is suddenly squished beside Atsumu.</p><p>He could laugh.</p><p>He does, though he barely realises he’s doing it and he thinks it might have come out as a frantic little ‘I’m not okay’ giggle instead of something good-natured. </p><p>If he were smoother—if he were Atsumu—he’d probably try and play it off with something like ‘haha, fancy seeing you here’. But he isn’t, and he was never good at these things anyway, so he says nothing, even as their knees knock together and their thighs touch. </p><p>He stares into his glass of shochu and does his best not to think about how Atsumu is still a human furnace. Kiyoomi thinks he can feel the heat radiating off him, but maybe it’s just the alcohol.</p><p>It’s an odd thing, to sit beside someone whose knee he used to pet in times like this, beside someone who used to throw an arm around his shoulders just for the sake of being closer, for the sake of touching just because they could. </p><p>He dares steal a glance to his left, and when he looks back out front, he spies Motoya making a face at him that says, <em>really?</em></p><p>Kiyoomi ignores it, and he musters every bit of personal and liquid courage as he opens his mouth to say, “I didn’t expect you to be here.” </p><p>Atsumu seems surprised that Kiyoomi said anything. Kiyoomi’s surprised he managed to get the words out, too.</p><p>Atsumu is quiet as he replies. “They didn’t tell me you were gonna be here either,” He says, and Kiyoomi realises that it’s one thing to hear Atsumu’s voice online when he watches games or happens to see a post-game interview—he no longer seeks them out, not anymore—and it’s another thing entirely to hear the lilt in his voice up-close and in-person for the first time in three years. </p><p>Kiyoomi is over him. Truly, he thinks he is, and he knows that he could be happy with someone else. This is just a normal interest. It’s always easier to see changes when you’re not up close to see them, and he hasn’t been close like this in a long time. It is no wonder that he is curious about how Atsumu looks and acts now, and he is only curious about Atsumu in much the same way as when he gets to see Wakatoshi and Motoya in person. </p><p>Atsumu is tireder and more world weary. He has the beginnings of fine lines around his eyes that crinkle when he talks. He can spy a handful of grey hairs hidden in the undercut. </p><p>But more importantly, now there is an air of confidence about him that only comes with age, an assured and steady self belief that no matter what comes his way, he will be able to manage it, because he has managed everything else that has been thrown at him. </p><p>Or perhaps Kiyoomi is projecting, and seeing what he wants to see. That’s okay too, and if this is what he is projecting onto other people now, then that is some small success. </p><p>“How have you been?” Kiyoomi dares ask the question. </p><p>His heart does not stutter when Atsumu answers, “I’ve been good, yeah. You? I heard the Falcons were looking to recruit you.”</p><p>Kiyoomi’s mind flicks to a thoroughly-read contract that is still sitting on his kitchen table. “I’m going to turn them down.” The words are out of Kiyoomi’s mouth before he realises he probably shouldn’t have said it, not when he hasn’t officially answered yet, and he still has a week before a decision needs to be made. </p><p>“You are? Why?” Atsumu is looking at him like it’s the most ludicrous move in the world. </p><p>“I just don’t think they’re for me,” Kiyoomi goes with. It’s mostly the truth, packaged in one convenient phrase. The reality is he’d have to move <em>again</em> (and frankly, the move to Amagasaki once he’d been with the Narwhals for a few months had been enough. He absolutely does not want to move across the entire country). He’d have to get used to playing in Division 1 again—and there is a real risk there that he might not even play regularly—and besides all that, he has really, genuinely come to enjoy playing for the Narwhals. He wouldn’t have thought that was possible until it had happened, until it had snuck up on him. </p><p>He likes most of the people sitting in front of him, but they don’t feel like a family.  </p><p>“Shame. You’d get along with Aran.” </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t know if it’s a compliment; he barely knows the man in question. So he just hums in response, taking another sip of his drink. </p><p>They fall quiet, and Kiyoomi lets the buzz of the other conversations going on wash over him. </p><p>It’s not exactly a comfortable situation, but it’s not awful. </p><p>Atsumu is just a person like everybody else, and it’s never been clearer than watching him here. Yes, he is a person who Kiyoomi had thought was special, and a person who had held Kiyoomi’s beating heart in his hands, and who had been careful with it—until he wasn’t. </p><p>But he is still just a person. Not an angel who ended up abandoning him. Not a devil for not being there. A person. It has taken him too long and too many therapy sessions to get to that realisation, but ‘better late than never’ is a saying for a reason.</p><p>Kiyoomi spends most of the rest of the week debating if he should take up Osamu’s offer of food, and eventually he arranges to meet up with Mizuki and Aone. Kiyoomi’s treat, of course. Osamu treats them all like old friends, refusing any kind of payment whatsoever (how does he keep his store open when he feeds athletes as much as they want?). The three of them eat, and laugh, and it’s the lightest Kiyoomi has felt for a long time. </p><p>Aone dares to ask him how things had gone, with the game and the drinks and seeing Miya again. </p><p>“It was fine,” Kiyoomi answers, and to his own surprise, he finds that he entirely means it. It’s with something like a grin that he adds, “And I had fun.”</p><p>When he returns to the studio that week, he is pleased to see that his glazes have held up, swirling together blues and reds and browns into something quite spectacular. It’s a far cry from the pastel tone the glazes have when they’re first applied, but that’s all part of the process. One of his first teachers had told him thatbeautiful things happen when heat is applied. </p><p>He’s inclined to agree. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>Kiyoomi is twenty-nine. </p><p>He is tired. His joints ache between practices. Keeping a daily exercise schedule doesn’t help keep the pains at bay the way it used to. Working with the physiotherapist doesn’t help the way it used to. Making sure to get plenty of sleep doesn’t help the way it used to. </p><p>Still, Kiyoomi persists.</p><p>He is sitting out of more games now, but he’s always there to keep the bench warm in case he’s needed, and he’s there to cheer his teammates on—though the cheering is always quieter than that of people in the crowd. Some things never change. </p><p>He is content.</p><p>He’s not happy, and he’d specifically say that he wasn’t happy to anyone who asked, but he is content. He has made choices in his life. He has made mistakes. Some choices were mistakes, and some mistakes led him to bad choices, but he thinks he’s learning how to make his peace with all of it. Sadness doesn’t last forever, and neither does fear, but neither, he realises now, does happiness. Grounding himself in the knowledge that his life is <em>okay </em>has brought a contentment he cannot explain. </p><p>It’s a funny concept. Contentment, instead of chasing happiness. </p><p>He wants to shake his younger self and say that someday he <em>will </em>find contentment in the small things, but he doesn’t think that younger-Kiyoomi would ever believe him. He doesn’t blame younger-Kiyoomi in the slightest. The world had been terrifying in it's enormity and in how he had no control over it. </p><p>But the world seems a lot smaller now that he's existed in it longer. </p><p>He had laughed at Kimura when she had suggested pottery. He laughs now as he gets splattered in the face with slip and doesn’t immediately go to wipe it off. </p><p>‘Mistakes are low-stakes in the arts,’ she had told him. ‘You can always try again. Nothing is unfixable.’ </p><p>He hadn’t believed her, but as the vase in front of him loses form and he lets it crumple in front of him—he knows now that she was right. </p><p>He tosses the ruined piece into his scraps bag. He can reuse it later once it’s dried off a little. </p><p>He gets to his feet, stretching his arms above his head—only gently, not to the point that he would hear a familiar click or feel his bones slide in their sockets. </p><p>It’s relatively early in the day. Not many of the other regulars are here yet. There’s Manami, in the back corner, and Kaori across from Kiyoomi. They’re tucked in at workbenches near the exposed-brick wall. Kiyoomi opted for a workbench by the window. He can see out into the world, and the world can see him. It’s a weird thing, being on display, but he thinks it’s worth it because in the evenings, the sun hits just right and he gets to bask in the warmth of it while he works. </p><p>He gets to do that a lot lately. He’s been here nearly every day. He’s running out of people to gift his work to; his mother has a staggering collection of vases; his sister is low on space for more dinnerware; he doesn’t need much of anything for himself; Motoya has had several plant pots for his balcony-garden; Wakatoshi insists he never wants anything and Kiyoomi had handed him many pots with succulents inside all the same. </p><p>He likes this studio, and he likes his spot within it. He likes the attached gallery for local artists to sell their wares, and he likes the people who run the place. </p><p>He cuts another chunk of clay off of the block and sets about wedging it. The clay is cool in his hands, and he throws his body weight into ridding it of air pockets, of dry patches, of imperfections. </p><p>When he is happy with the wedging, he centers it on his wheel. He presses down to make sure it sticks. He dampens the outer surface with water, and he sets the wheel in motion. </p><p>He’s still keen to throw a vase, even after the failure of earlier. He is pursuing thin walls in his ceramics lately; not the chunky (if sturdy) walls of his earlier pieces. Delicate like paper. Prone to collapsing in on itself, but still solid and surprisingly sturdy if it’s looked after. These items are by far the most temperamental, but he is getting the hang of it. </p><p>Or so he thinks, anyway. </p><p>It’s always harder to start off with than he expects it to be. He digs his thumbs into the center of the hunk of clay and puts all his body weight into it, until the clay begins to shift. The clay yields under his thumbs and the pads of his fingertips, and the walls of his creation grow atop a slender base. Clay gets under his nails, into the fine lines littered across his hands. Once, he’d have recoiled at the very idea. Now, he has learned to find peace in the way it dries, and flakes off when he showers. </p><p>He is careful as he works. The vase begins to take shape, walls sloping gently outward, then back in again in an oval. There’s only going to be a slender neck, so he is particularly careful as he withdraws his hand from inside the vase and sets about narrowing the opening. 

It’s always fiddly work, but it’s especially fiddly when the clay is this thin. If he over-waters it to keep it moist, it’s at greater risk of collapsing, but working with clay that is dry is asking for trouble, too.</p><p>He manages his way through all the same, with careful, precise movements. When he’s content with how it looks, he takes the pressure off the foot pedal and lets the wheel spin slowly. He observes his work for imperfections, but he sees none—or none that he can’t live with anyway. That’s the thing he’s learned about hand-making items like this. There will always be a lack of perfect symmetry, a thumbprint where there shouldn’t be, or the neck will be slightly off center.</p><p>It’s kind of the most beautiful part of the process. </p><p>He lets the wheel stop spinning, and sits back in his chair to admire his work. The sun is coming in through the window, for the clouds of the early morning have dissipated to make room for the late morning glow. </p><p>Kiyoomi smiles, and allows himself to bask in the pride of a job well done, just for a moment longer. He reaches for his wire cutter, and goes to separate the pot from the wheel, but he stops when he hears what he thinks is a familiar voice from the shop floor, just beyond the archway. </p><p>There’s no way. Surely not. </p><p>There are plenty of people in these parts with that accent and he’s sure there are plenty of people who have similar voices. </p><p>Still. It doesn’t hurt to go look. </p><p>He wipes his hands on his apron and pads out into the store to which the studio is attached. He wears slippers, while he’s here. It’s comfier than proper shoes, and it’s comfier than bare-footedness, too.</p><p>Some of the others go barefoot while they work. Kiyoomi wouldn’t dream of it. </p><p>He spies a shock of bleached yellow hair beyond a shelf of blown glassware. He catches the store assistant’s eye, where she’s talking to their visitor. She smiles at Kiyoomi from the counter, and Atsumu whips his head around to see where she’s looking. </p><p>His expression is unreadable for a fraction of a second too long, but he soon breaks out an almost-familiar smile. </p><p>“Never thought I’d see you in a place like this.” </p><p>“Never thought I’d see <em>you </em>somewhere like this either, Miya.” </p><p>Atsumu approaches him, raises an arm almost like he’s going to go for a hug, but one never arrives, and instead he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. </p><p>“What’re you doing here?”</p><p>Kiyoomi blinks, indicating vaguely to his apron. He can feel the drying slip on the bridge of his nose, too, but he doesn’t dare touch it, not when he’s just going to get splattered again later anyway. </p><p>“I took up pottery,” he explains, on the off-chance that Atsumu can’t figure it out. “There’s a workshop next door,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the archway that leads to the studio. “I have a wheel that's for my own private use.” </p><p>Atsumu has the decency to look impressed, perhaps, Kiyoomi thinks. He doesn’t miss the way Atsumu’s eyes scan the hardened, scaly clay on his knuckles or how they flick over his dirty apron. </p><p>“That’s really cool,” Atsumu breathes it rather than says it, and his eyes flick to the ceramics on display on wooden shelves against the far wall. “Some of these yours?” </p><p>Kiyoomi cocks his head in the direction of the wall, and pads over. Atsumu’s shoes squeak against the floor and it feels too loud.</p><p>“These ones are mine,” Kiyoomi says, gesturing at a mismatched set of items on display. “I don’t sell much, but that’s not really what I’m here to do anyway.”</p><p>“You just like it, huh?” Kiyoomi nods in answer as Atsumu’s eyes go wide upon examining the pieces. Bowls, plates, vases, flowerpots. Most of the techniques Kiyoomi has been trying have ended up on display here. When he’s lucky, he sells pieces, but he knows his display is not as visually coherent as those around him. </p><p>Kiyoomi sees Atsumu’s eyes hesitate at the pricing, but he watches as Atsumu’s eyes flick over to Manami’s display and the way his eyes go wide when he sees what actual professional artists charge. </p><p>“What brought you in here in the first place?” Kiyoomi asks. This never used to be the kind of place Atsumu would even dare step foot in—but then, people change. Kiyoomi had never considered that he would be a potter on the side. Maybe Atsumu had never seen himself as the kind of person to visit handcrafted art stores. </p><p>“Ma’s birthday,” Atsumu answers, and suddenly Kiyoomi understands. The Miya family home had always been, well, homely. Decor everywhere, cluttered but not messy or dirty. The kitchen had been the heart. Atsumu’s mother had always had an eye for well crafted items. Cast iron pans, sturdy handcrafted teapots—Kiyoomi remembers Atsumu’s mother telling him all about the potters who made them when he remarked on them—and a hand blown glass vase. </p><p>It makes sense now, that her son would be here to find something for her. </p><p>“What kind of thing are you looking for?” </p><p>Atsumu’s mother had always been kind to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi hadn’t taken them up at the time, but he remembers the way she checked in on him after the break-up. He wonders now if she had been asked to check in on him or if she’d done it from the goodness of her own heart—and she was good of heart—but in either case, it had been a nice gesture from one of the most genuinely kind women Kiyoomi had ever met.</p><p>So when Atsumu says, “I dunno,” it only feels like the right thing to do to reply, “I have some mugs I was planning on glazing today. I can show you how and you could do them in her favourite colours.” </p><p>Atsumu looks like he’s considering it, but he’s peering intently at Kiyoomi’s face as he does. Maybe he wonders if this would be too much time around each other; after all, they’re practically strangers now. </p><p>It’s an odd thing, realising he’s practically a stranger to someone who he used to be convinced would be around forever. The Kiyoomi who must exist in Atsumu’s head is gone. The 23-year-old Atsumu who exists in Kiyoomi’s head is gone, too. </p><p>Except, when this Atsumu smiles and says, “Sure. Lead the way,” Kiyoomi could almost convince himself it’s just like old times, even though everything has changed. </p><p>Kiyoomi leads Atsumu out of the bright, airy gallery and into the bright, but smaller and warmer work studio. Manami looks up from her pile of bowls and waves from the back of the room. </p><p>Kiyoomi points Atsumu in the direction of his workbench. “Stay there. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back.” </p><p>The mugs Kiyoomi worked on the week prior have been bisque fired. None have exploded, thankfully, not that that’s happened in a long time. The handles are intact and as he picks one up, he thinks there’s a nice weight to the pieces. </p><p>These will work well for Atsumu’s mother. </p><p>So he carries the tray of mugs to his workstation. Atsumu has, in fact, managed to not touch anything save for a chair which he now sits in, looking out of the big window to the side. </p><p>The sun is high in the sky. Atsumu is directly in its light. A person could be forgiven for thinking that he looked something more than human, that he is instead something ethereal and special.</p><p>Kiyoomi clears his throat and sets the mugs on the empty part of the workbench, in front of Atsumu. Once more, Atsumu has the good grace to look impressed, and he asks, “You made these? Like, by yourself?”</p><p>“All by myself, yeah.”</p><p>Atsumu goes to pick one up, and his hand is halfway to the handle before he looks up to ask permission. Kiyoomi nods, and Atsumu’s fingers close around the handle. He picks it up, inspects the craftsmanship.</p><p>They’re damn fine mugs, if Kiyoomi says so himself. </p><p>“These are really cool.” </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re sure you don’t mind doing all this?” </p><p>What Kiyoomi thinks is that of course he’s sure; he doesn’t do anything if he’s not sure.</p><p>What he says is, “Let me get the glazes. I’m sure.”</p><p>It takes three trips, but Kiyoomi pulls all the buckets of glaze over to his workstation. There are dozens of colours they keep on hand, ready to go with just a quick blitz of the mixing tool (which is effectively a drill with a paddle at the end). </p><p>“I’m not trying to be a dick, but these colours are kinda lame.” </p><p>Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at the selection of buckets Atsumu has opened. Sure, they <em>look </em>pale, or dull now, but a good go in the kiln is all it takes to pull out colours far more vibrant and <em>full</em>. </p><p>“That grey one?” Kiyoomi says, raising an eyebrow and turning the lid back over. “There’s a reason we have a navy tile stuck to the top. That’s the colour it goes once it heats up.”</p><p>Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi like he might be playing a trick. </p><p>“So you’re telling me that pink one goes brown, does it? And that minty green one goes blue?”</p><p>Kiyoomi nods. Atsumu doesn’t seem to believe him, but he shrugs his shoulders and continues on all the same. “Alright. If it looks shit it’s your fault.”</p><p>Kiyoomi takes a seat opposite Atsumu. Their knees knock under the table, but there’s not really anything he can do about it. “Glazes aren’t like paint, you see,” Kiyoomi explains, “There are colorants in them which react with heat. Ones with cobalt go blue. Copper carbonate looks green to start with but you can make it go red if you do a reduction fire properly. That kind of thing.”</p><p>Atsumu blinks. “Cool. I’m gonna take your word for it.” </p><p>Kiyoomi smiles. It’s soft. Some things never change, and Atsumu not wanting to get too bogged down in detail seems to be one of them. “Sure thing.”</p><p>“So how do we actually do this stuff anyway?” </p><p>“Oh, there are plenty of ways. You can paint it on,” Kiyoomi indicates to the paintbrushes at the end of the table. “You can dip them. You can layer the glazes over each other—”</p><p>“Which way do you do it?”</p><p>Kiyoomi pauses, taken aback. He doesn’t usually get asked about his process. He doesn’t usually have many people to talk to about it. </p><p>“I suppose I like dipping things. You can get really crisp lines if you do it that way.” </p><p>Can, but it’s by no means a certainty; some glazes are prone to being runny when they’re heated which can ruin even the most precisely dipped lines. </p><p>“Oh, cool,” Atsumu picks up a mug, considers it for a second and then looks at the glazes. Kiyoomi realises what he's doing and catches Atsumu’s wrist just before the mug breaks the surface of the glaze. </p><p>“Stop.” He doesn’t let go of Atsumu’s hand. “If you’re doing this, you’re doing it right. I need to remix the glazes up to make sure the particles haven’t settled. And you’re using the dipping tongs.”</p><p>“Dipping tongs,” Atsumu repeats, incredulous. “That something you made up?”</p><p>“No. I’m not that smart.”</p><p>Kiyoomi gets Atsumu to pick out the colours he wants to use, and he uses the mixing tool to make sure they’re fit for purpose. It’s an oddly soothing task despite all of the noise, and soon enough they’re ready to go. </p><p>Kiyoomi prepares wax to go on the bottom of the mugs so that the glaze doesn’t soak in there; that's a surefire method for getting your piece stuck to the bottom of the kiln, and there’s only one way out if that happens. </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t want any broken mugs. </p><p>He hands Atsumu the dipping tongs, and shrugs his shoulders. “Go wild.”</p><p>Atsumu does. </p><p>Or rather, he’s careful and asks for Kiyoomi’s help on the first two mugs. Kiyoomi gives him pointers; shows him how best to coat the inside of the mug without getting the white glaze all over the outside; shows him his favourite ways of creating colour blocks. They grip the dipping tongs together, long pale fingers curled atop bronze. </p><p>For the next four mugs? Kiyoomi may be the expert—or at least, the one who knows most, out of the two of them—but Atsumu is fearless. He puts colours together that Kiyoomi would never dream of, dips and re-dips and dabs on polka dots and thick stripes with paint brushes, splatters white glaze atop blue in such a way that Kiyoomi wonders if it might come out at the end looking like seafoam. Kiyoomi only intervenes to remind him that the pink isn’t actually pink and is going to go brown in the kiln once; only corrects his dipping technique a few times; only has to go back and make sure the inside surface is fully coated twice. </p><p>By all accounts, it’s a good first effort. It took Kiyoomi months to master the art of glazing and years to feel comfortable experimenting the way Atsumu seems to do without a care. Maybe it’s because Atsumu has no frame of reference as to how to do it right. Maybe it’s because some things never change and when Kiyoomi had known him, Atsumu had never shied away from trying new things. </p><p>In any case, they make relatively quick work of the six mugs, and Kiyoomi eyes them, looking for imperfections that he can fix before they get fired in the kiln—air bubbles, or areas that have been missed, or where the glaze is too thick.</p><p>“I’ll make sure these are fired and ready for your mother,” He says once he’s satisfied, arranging the mugs neatly back on the tray, handles all aligned. “Come by at the same time next week.”</p><p>Atsumu nods. He wipes his hands on the borrowed apron before he pulls it off over his head. Kiyoomi reaches for it. Their hands touch. </p><p>Kiyoomi does not feel butterflies. </p><p>He offers a small smile all the same, as he picks up the tray. “See you next week, Miya.”</p><p>A week later, and Kiyoomi is in no fit state to be throwing on his wheel. His shoulder had popped uncomfortably at his last practice, and he is under strict orders from the team’s physiotherapist to not do anything which could make it worse. It’s time to rest—even though the rest might make him stiff, later. </p><p>Still. It’s not like there aren’t other things he can do. He has a vase to glaze, and he can do that even with one hand out of action. He can make tea and coffee for the other regulars, and interrupt them for a conversation. They don’t mind. Kiyoomi doesn’t mind either, not when they’re a warm and welcoming bunch of people. </p><p>He hadn’t ever thought that something like this would happen, that he’d be content to spend a Sunday in a room full of other people and get covered in clay and glaze.</p><p>But then, when had life ever really gone the way Kiyoomi expected it? </p><p>When it reaches midday, his hands are itching for something to do. He wipes down the surfaces. He sweeps the floor to get rid of dried clay scraps. He remixes half the glazes to stop them settling too badly. It’s a communal workspace to all intents and purposes, and he hopes that in some small way this is doing the others a favour. </p><p>It’s not enough to keep him busy forever though, and there could still be a while before Atsumu arrives. </p><p>Still, he retrieves the glazed mugs, inspects them one more time and carries them out front. The store assistant has taken her lunch, so it’s quiet. They’re always quiet on Sundays, but having nobody here, just the distant sound of chatter and pottery wheels is a different kind of contentment. </p><p>He could stay here forever. </p><p>The quiet doesn’t last long, for there’s the sound of a glass door opening and—</p><p>It would be a lie to say that Miya Atsumu was not still one of the most handsome men that Kiyoomi had ever met. </p><p>It would be a lie to say that the afternoon sun did not backlight him in a way that looked almost ethereal. </p><p>And it would be a lie to say that Kiyoomi’s breath didn’t catch in his throat, just a little bit. </p><p>Kiyoomi is not a stupid man, and he is not blind. So he can simultaneously recognise these facts and know that he must not, should not, act on any of them. </p><p>So when Atsumu waves, it’s a polite smile that graces Kiyoomi’s features. </p><p>Kiyoomi is ready for him, mugs lined up neatly and with a tissue-paper lined box to put them in.</p><p>“Hey, Sakusa,” Atsumu draws out the <em>hey </em>into something far longer than necessary, and says Kiyoomi’s name with a lilt that carries through the entire store. </p><p>Kiyoomi hates it. He doesn’t. </p><p>“Good afternoon, Miya,” Is all he says, and he gestures vaguely to the mugs that sit in front of him once Atsumu has approached. “These came out really well, don’t you think?”</p><p>Atsumu admires them, picking them up one by one and admiring the colours. “These are great,” He confirms, not that Kiyoomi needs it. That Atsumu is content with them is enough of a job well done. “Ma’s gonna love them.”</p><p>Kiyoomi starts the packing process, carefully wrapping each mug in layers of tissue. He’s been careful with the colour selections—they have an array of wrapping options, and he’s chosen shades of white and grey to let the colours pop—and he’s happy with how it all looks in the box. Special, but unassuming. Modest. </p><p>He goes to wrap the fifth of the mugs, and Atsumu clears his throat. He looks away, almost embarrassed, and Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“What is it?” Kiyoomi asks.</p><p>“Oh, it’s just, y’know—” Atsumu answers, shifting from one foot to the next. “I dunno if ma needs six? And I really like these last two so I think I wanna keep them. If that’s okay.”</p><p>It wasn’t like Kiyoomi was going to sell them, so he shrugs his shoulders. “Sure. Let me grab another box.”</p><p>He kneels below the counter, rooting around for another box he can use for Atsumu to transport the items home. Once located, he stands, and begins the meticulous task of wrapping the final mugs. </p><p>“I think I’m gonna use these ones a lot,” Atsumu offers, unprompted. Kiyoomi looks up. “You know how you just have those mugs you like using a lot? Like a favourite one? I need a new one. Haven’t found a good one to use for a while y’know? And these ones are nice.”</p><p>“What happened to the last one?” Kiyoomi asks, raising an eyebrow. “You used to always use the same one over and over.” </p><p>“It—” Atsumu pauses, furrowing his eyebrows. “—it got broken.”</p><p>“That’s a shame.” </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t let himself linger on it too long on this topic. It’s uncomfortably close to opening a whole can of worms, and despite everything, despite the distance and time that he has been granted, it is all too easy to see himself trying to slot his current self into his old nook, just to see if he still fits.</p><p>Kiyoomi wraps the final piece in silence. The chatter from the other room is still there, but the crinkle of tissue paper feels far too loud in the space between them. </p><p>He ties a ribbon around the box that is making its way to Atsumu’s mother, and he places both boxes carefully inside a plastic bag. </p><p>Atsumu pulls out his wallet and Kiyoomi shakes his head. </p><p>“Let me pay you,” Atsumu insists. “Clay and all isn’t cheap. I looked it up. And I’m not gonna be that guy who assumes a discount on everything just ‘cause I know you.”</p><p>“It’s a gift,” Kiyoomi protests, shaking his head. “I’m the creator, I set the rules.”</p><p>Atsumu scowls and tries again. “Just let me pay you for your time then. You could’ve been making actual stuff to sell—”</p><p>“I don’t do this stuff for money,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “I still have my day job and I freelance on the side. I don’t need your money, Atsumu. Make a donation to an arts programme for kids or a mental health charity or something instead.”</p><p>Atsumu frowns, but he puts his wallet back in his pocket. </p><p>Kiyoomi pushes the plastic bag towards Atsumu, who picks it up. He makes a move like he’s going to leave, and Kiyoomi says, “Tell your mother I said happy birthday.”</p><p>Atsumu nods, but he stands there and doesn’t leave. Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu opens his mouth like he wants to say something. He closes it again, and opens again, and Kiyoomi finally asks, “Can I help you? Do you need something else?”</p><p>Kiyoomi sees the way Atsumu steels himself. </p><p>“I know a place not too far from here,” Atsumu finally says once he’s let his jaw unclench. “A cafe, I mean. They have earl grey cake. We could get coffee and catch up. Since you won’t let me pay you properly.”</p><p>Kiyoomi considers it, eyes flitting down to the table in front of him as he smooths his hands over sheets of tissue paper. This way, he doesn’t have to look at the way Atsumu is trying to stare a hole into his head. </p><p>It’s a bad idea, by all accounts. A truly terrible one. </p><p>So he’ll just have to be careful, won’t he?</p><p>“I still prefer tea.” Kiyoomi looks up, scanning Atsumu’s face for some kind of acknowledgement. </p><p>“Okay,” Atsumu says, with something like a sheepish grin. “So I happen to know this great little cafe with a billion tea choices and they also do an earl grey cake with lemon frosting and I <em>bet</em> you’d like it if you’re still into earl grey as your tea of choice. We should go catch up for old times’ sake.”</p><p>When Kiyoomi smiles, he can feel it reach the corners of his eyes. “Okay.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you made it to here... thank you. I cannot begin to explain how difficult this was to write nor how glad I am to finally publish it, 5 months exactly after the first part was released. </p><p>Comments would make me INCREDIBLY happy!!</p><p>You can find me <a href="https://twitter.com/abrandnewheart">@abrandnewheart</a> if you want to keep up with anything else I’m working on.</p><p>This work was beta read by the wonderful <a href="https://twitter.com/ceryna_writes">Rachel</a> and I owe her my life because this would not have been done without her.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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